More Dangerous, Less Wise
by ziggy3
Summary: They are called the Sons of Thunder for the violent revenge they wreak on the Orcs of the Mountains for their mother's torment. But when they meet Legolas Thranduillion, his defiance of Elrohir's cruelty leads to simmering lust and dark conflict on the banks of the Bruinen. Set before the Ring leaves Imladris. Aragorn, Fellowship, Thranduil, Elrond. Slash implied. Prequel to Sons.
1. Chapter 1

**More Dangerous, Less Wise.**

**By ziggy3**

_Beta: As always, I am very lucky to have Anarithilien._

**Characters**

Thranduil: Elvenking or as the Wood-elves call him, _Aran_. I have used King as his title as that is how Tolkien refers to him.

Galion: the King's 'butler' or steward, and oldest friend.

Laersul: eldest son of Thranduil, leading the pursuit of Orcs towards Dol Guldur. (OC)

Thalos: middle son of Thranduil, leading the trackers(OC)

Legolas: youngest son of Thranduil.

Alagos: one of the King's messengers (OC).

**Timeline**

**20th June: **Mirkwood attacked and Gollum freed. (canon) Laersul, the oldest son of Thranduil, leads the pursuit. Legolas is amongst them. Thalos, Thranduil's second son, leads the trackers. All travel together at first.

**23rd June: **Thalos breaks away with the trackers as they follow Gollum. Alagos, a messenger, is sent to Thranduil to tell him all that is happening.

**25th June: **Laersul catches up with the Orcs and engages them but they merely seek to delay the elves and split them further up. Alagos is sent to Thranduil and arrives four days later and gives all known news to Thranduil.

**30th June:** Radagast is sent by Saruman to find Gandalf and tell him to hasten to Orthanc. Gandalf asks Radagast to send messages with information regarding their hunt for Gollum or of the Ring should be sent to Orthanc as he still thought Saruman was on the side of Good. (canon)

**4th July**: Boromir leaves Minas Tirith(canon)

**22nd July: **the two Nazgul leave Dol Guldur and join the seven from Minas Tirith (canon)

(Source: HASA)

**Chapter One: A storm breaks.**

**29th June 3018**

It was late when Galion strode down the passageway outside the King's chambers, golden light spilled onto the stone flags from the slightly open door, an invitation if ever he saw one. Boldly he pushed open the door to see a single candle, thick with wax that had dribbled into the pewter holder; its long flame guttered slightly in the draught. Candlelight pooled on a map of the Forest held open by a goblet, another candlestick with only a smoking wick, and various piles of books. Beside the Forest map, but only half unscrolled, was the map of Rhovanion and the Hithaeglir, white peaks marking the spine of the lands spread before him. Like a spine, or teeth, thought Galion, remembering that long cold journey with Oropher many, many years before. He shook himself. Too long ago now. What was here and now was his concern. He knew why Thranduil had this map open and why he sat in shadow near the table, his fingers steepled and staring into the fire he must have lit himself for Galion would never have allowed such extravagance in Summer.

Thranduil's slate-green gaze swung heavily towards his steward, his friend, and Galion felt the weight of it. It was a rare moment, Galion thought, coming into the room and prodding emphatically at the fire, that Thranduil was still. The King's presence always filled a room. Like fire and air, Galion thought. Now the air was heavy as if a storm was about to break.

Since the long, miserable return from Mordor, Thranduil sometimes sank into these dark moods which were unflinching in their despair; then he withdrew from everyone and drenched himself in memories of blood-soaked Dagorlad, stood again in the ash and empty hopes of the Last Alliance and blamed himself for the encroach of the Shadow upon the Woods. It was usual for the melancholy to follow such losses as they had with the unexpected attack upon them that led to Gollum's escape. It was many days since any of the Wood-elves had slept on their talans beneath the stars and moon; they still reeled from the assault and had retreated into the stronghold beneath the hills.

'I noted you had taken the good stuff from the cellar,' Galion said lightly, lifting a heavy glass decanter and sloshing the rich amber liquid around the glass bowl. He poured wine into the goblet that was being used as a paperweight and tutted disapprovingly. With his free hand he fished around in a pewter bowl that was being used by Thranduil to hoard stumps of old candles and bits of string, and pulled out a couple of exquisitely wrought silver clasps. They had been precisely designed to secure the map onto the table but Thranduil never seemed to remember. On the other hand, Laersul always did. But he was in the South of the Forest, hunting the Orcs who had attacked them and freed Gollum. Right now, Galion thought they were well rid of the creature for it stank and had bitten him more than once. Gandalf had bid them treat it kindly, but look how that had ended.

Galion sighed and looking down at the half-open map of the Hithaeglir, took a gulp of wine and felt it warm his chest and belly. Then he took another.

'I heard Alagos had arrived with messages from Laersul.'

Thranduil made a slight movement with his head. 'He reports that Gollum seems to be heading for the Gladden Fields,' he said and looked back into the flames. A log shifted and sparks flew up, throwing an orange light upon the strong, handsome features, but his eyes were cast down and his long lashes showed sharply on his cheek. 'Laersul pursues the Orcs into the South. They are level with the East Bight.' He drank deeply from the goblet that he cradled in his hand and then said morosely, 'Laersul thinks they will catch up with the Orcs in two days. He has sent Thalos to pursue Gollum.'

Well that accounted for two of Thranduil's sons, Galion thought. He did not ask where Legolas was. Laersul may well not have told Thranduil and it would put him in a worse mood if he asked; Legolas was most likely to be with Laersul heading for Dol Guldur, and the thought of both of them in that dark place would be more than Thranduil could bear. Galion sighed, looking down into the dark amber depths. He took another gulp but this time it did not warm him.

'Do you remember how we celebrated old Smaug's death?' Thranduil asked suddenly and Galion looked at him, slightly puzzled. This was not how he expected the conversation to turn.

'The_ very_ last of the Dorwinion,' he said, puzzled but grinning anyway, and Thranduil laughed a little then too, because it had been the last of the Dorwinion that led to one of Galion's least fine hours*. 'We celebrated all through the night. And Gandalf and Master Baggins with us.' Galion smiled because he knew the King had a fondness for the hobbit.

'Master Baggins indeed.' Thranduil breathed through his nose and looked back at the fire. The wood splintered by flames, glowed orange and gold and black where it had burned, and he stared into it.

Galion threw himself in the low comfortable chair opposite Thranduil, indented already with another's backside; probably Alagos, he thought disapprovingly, for the King's messenger certainly never showed proper respect.

'We had a double celebration as I recall,' he said, closing one eye and considering. 'Finally the Sit-on-your-Arse White Council actually did something and got rid of the blasted Necromancer-my-Arse. Although _we_ all knew _He_ had already gone anyway. Even so, it was good for a while, was it not?'

Thranduil smiled and lifted his own goblet in salute. 'It was indeed good for a while...' He drank, deeply, and the candlelight flashed on a rich, dark ruby on his elegant hand, glinted on emeralds and antique gold in the brooch he wore on his deep green tunic. But nothing was as fine as that long, heavy gold hair; Galion found his thoughts straying where they should not and was lost for a moment in memory, the sift of that burnished silk, the colour of gold coins. He pulled himself back to the present with a dramatic sigh.

'Ah, it was good. The Summers beneath the stars... But we were never at risk from Smaug.' He shook his head as he always did when he remembered the journey to Erebor with Thranduil that he thought reckless. 'You can tell me what you like about magic swords and wizards and magic rings, but there is nothing to beat a Woodelf's wit or witlessness!*' he said, guzzling the really _very_ good stuff that he knew, as a good steward does, was utterly wasted on him. It should really only be drunk by the King.

'That marked the end of the good time, though we did not know it then, my old friend. We will look back and think what a fool I was, Galion.' Thranduil took another drink, a long one. 'I should have listened more carefully to you when you said there was something about Master Baggins...' He paused for a moment and here was only the sound of logs shifting into ash in the grate. Then quietly, he said, 'It is upon us, Galion. One way or another, it is upon us.'

Galion frowned a little blearily, wondering why Thranduil was immersed in _that_ memory. True, Galion, whilst liking the hobbit, had said there was something about Master Baggins that made him uneasy and Thranduil had not disagreed then, but no one thought any more of it. Why was he bringing all that up again now? Galion pulled the half-empty decanter towards himself with one hand and in the other, held his goblet. He pulled the delicate glass stopper out with his teeth and spat it out onto the table where it clinked against the candlestick. A little wax dribbled onto the map and he wiped it off with his elbow.

'Watching you, Galion, is always a joy,' Thranduil said drily. 'I see where Legolas gets his manners and his subtlety.'

'Wood-elves are known for their grace,' said Galion. He squinted at Thranduil, pleased that he was recovering his sense of humour, and proportion. 'And I am not to blame for that boy's manners, or his lack of subtlety. I would sooner trust your horse with anything that required subtlety. Besides, _you_ are his father.'

Galion's eye caught again on the outspread map. He found himself tracing the inked lines; one led straight to Dol Guldur, the other ran alongside it first, then wavered, doubled back and then ran towards the Gladden Fields. They had been lovely once, he sighed. The loose end of the inked line now pointed West, towards the spine of mountains.

'You have been following their trail...' Galion stared at the point where the trail petered out. 'Do you think that is where he is heading?' He screwed up his face. 'With any luck Gollum will disappear back into the bowels of the earth and the goblins can have him.' He wished they were all safely home and found the map wobbled a bit although he could not think why. 'How soon before you let them come home?' he asked. 'They will not find that nasty little beast now.' His voice caught a little and then he felt Thranduil's strong, warm hand on his and he looked up.

'You never could take the good stuff,' he smiled and Galion let his gaze linger a while on the loveliness of it.

'You think I am drunk? A Wood-elf is never drunk!' he declared mildly outraged and wanting Thranduil to leave his hand there a little longer. 'Now _you, _with your bit of SIndar blood, are hopeless. I remember Caras Galadhon.' He always brought up Caras Galadhon when in his cups, loved the memory of it.

'Neither you nor I acquitted ourselves well that day,' Thranduil said, unperturbed by those long ago memories.

'Nonsense! We upheld the reputation of the House of Oropher,' Galion snorted but Thranduil would not be distracted more, and stared again into the fire, lost in his own dark thoughts. Galion wanted nothing more than to hold onto his hand, to comfort Thranduil, but he knew that right now it would meet with nothing more than friendship.

He put down his goblet and closed his eyes for a moment. 'There is nothing more you can do, Thranduil,' he said suddenly serious. 'Sometimes even Mithrandir can get things wrong.'

Galion watched the firelight flicker over Thranduil's handsome, noble features...high cheekbones and straight nose, strong set jaw. The firelight always seemed to catch on his hair, gilding him gold.

'I _wish _I had not let Gollum go outside, nor climb that tree.._._' Thranduil said in sudden anguish and his hand slowly clenched the small oak leaf pendant about his neck as if he could somehow change things, just by_ wanting._ 'If I had not allowed it, Celdir and Anglach would be at home now with their mothers, and Sîlaros' young wife walking with him under the stars instead of sitting at his bedside weeping as if her heart will break, and clutching his hand as if that might bring him back to her.'

He did not speak of Naurion, still missing and for whom Laersul and his warriors risked their lives going closer and closer to Dol Guldur in the hope of reaching him. Somehow.

Galion banged his goblet down angrily, spilling a little wine on his sleeve. 'Why is this your fault,Thranduil?' he demanded. 'Would that Mithrandir had taken that accursed Gollum to Imladris or Lothlorien, where they could truly guard it!' he burst out. 'You, _we_, have given more blood than any other Elven people in Arda to put right the wrongs of others. Whilst they sit in their protected little kingdoms and deny you, we are slaughtered! Just like Dagorlad, just like Doriath!'

Thranduil's hawkish gaze fixed upon him, a dangerous reference, Galion knew but he was a Woodelf through and through and could no more back away from danger than he could refuse a drink and song. So he took a long gulp of the heady wine and said, 'We, _you_, have given yourself freely; you have given your own sons. That could have been _Legolas_ slain or taken! We should be glad that creature has gone. With luck, the goblins will eat it and it will make them as sick as it made us!'

'Enough, Galion,' Thranduil said but surprisingly, there was no heat in it. 'It was not Legolas.'

Galion breathed in, blew out.

'And it is not only us who pay,' Thranduil continued. He swirled the deep amber wine in his goblet, lost in his thoughts. 'Elrond has lost his wife, and now it is said he has lost both his sons to the Shadow. They ride in fury, hunt and kill mercilessly. The Sons of Thunder they are called by the Orcs and goblins of the Mountain. I would not have that for any of my own, to lose themselves in such bitter hatred.'

Galion gave a snort that only a Woodelf would give. 'Perhaps they could come here and kill a few spiders for us! Or Orcs...maybe a Nazgûl or two.'

The King leaned forward and stirred the dying embers of the fire. Sparks flew. 'We have no need of their help when we have such sons of the forest as we do.' His handsome face softened, and he tilted his head, looked back into the flames. Galion gazed at him for a while, remembering the catch of desire softening those long green eyes. Only once, for both loved their wives...but at Dagorlad, all needed comfort. And Galion could not forget...

He glanced at Thranduil, his golden hair burnished, gilded by the firelight, who caught the glance and gave Galion a smile that reached into Galion's loyal heart and squeezed.

He swallowed and looked away at the map outspread on the table. 'Call them back, Thranduil,' he said thickly for his voice was not his own, too choked, too full his heart. 'Do not let them pursue Gollum into the Mountains. They are treacherous enough on their own without the swarms of goblins. Send Alagos to Mithrandir now, do not delay longer. Tell him Gollum has gone and good riddance.'

The King turned away and stared into the flames, pupils wide and his full lips closed. 'Not yet, old friend, though my heart is as uneasy as yours. Perhaps Gollum is heading for the Mountains indeed...but for now, he is not even at the Gladden Fields. We may still catch him, our hunters are swift and sure.'

Galion collapsed back against the chair, feeling helpless. Thranduil would not be persuaded now, he recognised the set of his stubborn jaw and his eyes had hardened. Silence covered them and there was only the crack and shift of the ashes settling as the last flames died.

Then slowly, quietly, Thranduil spoke again. 'There are times, Galion, when I wonder if we should not move again...Further north once more...I hear of others going West. They feel the tide in their blood.'

Galion stared, shocked beyond speech. Thranduil felt it and glanced his way.

'You have seen how many of our warriors are returned to us, cold and dead. And sometimes...sometimes worse.' He swallowed. 'It creeps upon us like night. And there seems nothing more we can do...'

'Thranduil! If you have given up, how can any of us have any hope?'

Thranduil reached out then and touched Galion gently. 'No, I have not given up, old friend. But we send our children to fight the Shadow at our doorstep. Tell me, do you ever feel it? When the Moon is full and pulling the tides West?'

'No,' Galion declared. 'Why would anyone wish to go to some distant land that not even the Noldor liked? Even they found it too restrictive and they have are all those laws and things. You would never cope, Thranduil.' He shook his head in disbelief. Wood-elves in Valinor, he had never heard such a thing! 'I hope for his sake that Oropher is not reborn. They would have to send him back East, like they did Glorfindel.'

Thranduil laughed loudly at that; never was there more glorious and audacious a leader as Oropher. It was a view shared by many of the Woodelves. Oropher suited them. And they loved Thranduil Oropherion for he wore the name like a badge, and for his bright burnished courage, his sheer will, and his stubborn determination that the Shadow would not win.

Thranduil suddenly pushed his chair back and stood so he could lean over the table where the maps were spread. One be-ringed hand toyed with the silver clasps Galion had fixed the map with and unseeing, he said, 'I can feel how the air is fires of the earth are hot and _He_ searches. Frantically now. He knows _It_ is near...The Nazgûl are hunting. They will leave Dol Guldur, and Galion, I fear for our Mr Baggins.'

Thranduil turned towards Galion, and the flames cast shadows on his face so he looked more hawkish than usual. 'Gollum had a _precious_ thing, the only thing he cared about..He came out of the Mountains looking for it, believing that our Master Baggins had stolen it from him...I heard him speak thus, Galion. The Man, Strider, Aragorn, found Gollum on the edge of Mordor.' He fixed Galion with his long green eyes that could be warm but now were flint. 'What _is_ this _precious_ thing that he came so far from the Mountains to find, that he lost? What is this thing he thought might be in Mordor?'

Galion stared, a horrible sense of foreboding descended. Like a veil of darkness, and he had a sudden image of the Forest in flames and yellow smoke curling upwards...a child screamed somewhere...And he thought he saw Legolas standing staring at the edge of a clearing***... He started suddenly and looked around as if he thought it might be real.

'There is a storm coming, Galion. And I very much fear that Gollum and our Mister Baggins will be in the heart of it.'

0o0o0

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Beta; Anarithilien - thank you**

**Disclaimer: No money etc**

**Warnings: None for earlier chapters but as I said before, later that is likely to change but unedited versions will be available on Faerie (www. and then add esteliel.) If anything remotely m/m offends you, you aren't going to like this so I should go elsewhere.**

**Chapter Two: The Quality of Mercy**

**5th August**

Moonlight pooled silver on the forest path, casting shadows of the tall beech trees. The breeze from the West stirred the long hair of the Wood-elves waiting silently in the boughs of the beech and oak, and set the leaves whispering. Above, starlight struggled against the brightness of the moon, which rode low and close to the earth, seeming to skim the tops of the trees. The Elves did not sing; each lovely, still face turned to watch the forest path with deep grief.

Distantly came the sound of horses' hoofs thudding wearily on the forest path, and the air tensed. The first grey horse came into view, almost invisible in the barred and dappled moonlight. Its head was low and weary and though its rider was tall and the moonlight seemed to stroke his burnished hair the colour of gold coins, his head too was bowed in defeat. Another and then another horse followed, each horse carried its head low and each rider was slumped. They had failed.

The tall Elf with hair the colour of gold coins looked up with grey-blue eyes full of sorrow into the trees at the many empty talans. This was Laersul, the eldest son of the King. Behind him rode his twenty men, for that was every one they could spare after the attack, and some had gone westwards to the Gladden Fields; Gollum's tracks had been clear there. The waiting Elves watched them pass and did not sing or cheer although many hearts were relieved that loved ones had returned and they had not lost more.

When the company reached a large spreading oak, Laersul tilted his head and looked up for a moment. He held up his hand for a halt and slid slowly from his exhausted horse, which huffed and nosed about the grass in a desultory fashion as if too tired even to graze. Laersul winced when his feet met the earth and he clutched his side for a moment before he straightened.

A woman stood in the dappled moonlight, her chest heaving with emotion. She glanced behind the warrior, searching for her beloved returned to her or at least a body slung over a horse. The Elves behind Laersul could not meet her eyes as she stepped past their leader and ran quickly between them, searching, looking at each horse, her lips parted and eyes distraught. She whirled back to Laersul and he stood looking down at her, reached out to touch her arm. She looked up at him, stunned and still he said nothing.

Suddenly she folded, slid to her knees and turned her face to the sky and cried aloud. It was a terrible, wrenching sound, of loss and loneliness and utter despair.

As if the cry released them then, other women quickly surrounded her, their arms about her and she wailed again, this time, she did not stop. The women cradled her in their arms and rocked her, held her close to their breasts and she clung to them, sobbing. One woman looked up at Laersul bitterly as only a mother who has lost her child would.

'You did not reach him in time...' she said and Laersul flinched at the accusation.

'We were so close, Nauriel,' he said in deep sorrow and bowed his head. 'But we could not catch them.' He did not say that the Nazgûl had ridden out, had cast their dark shadows of sorcery about, that they had been sorely beset for the Orcs and Nazgûl had turned on them then and the Elves had to flee for their own lives. He did not speak of the screaming that led them to despair.

'You could not catch them! They are Orcs and you, Elves! Are they so fleet-footed?' She threw her hand out towards them in disgust. 'You could not even be _merciful*_?'

Behind them, one of the younger warriors gave a wordless cry and turned away and amongst the small company, there was a distressed murmur. They shifted on their horses and seemed to close about themselves. Laersul turned towards them in consternation and then looked back to the bereaved woman, who sobbed and was held by another woman.

'I will go with her, with you, if you wish me to...To tell you what happened.'

Nauriel clutched her heart in agony for her lost son and shook her head. 'No. You are not welcome.'

There was a mild murmur of dismay from the crowd and another woman stepped forward and touched Nauriel on her arm, her face soft with compassion. 'This is the Shadow that speaks, Nauriel. You know that I have your pain. Not one family has been spared over the years, not Laersul's either. You know this.' She turned to Laersul and reached out, gently touching his distraught face. 'You could not have done more, Laersul. We know.'

'It was not enough,' said Laersul and he stood for a moment, head bowed in sorrow until his warriors moved softly around him, murmuring and touching him lightly so he would feel their Song and that they knew the truth of it. They moved silently around him and then he led them over the river and into the King's stronghold.

0o0o

Galion heard what had happened and had to be restrained from going and finding Nauriel, and the only reason he did not was because of her loss. She was ever waspish he thought, and he knew that Laersul would feel her words as cruelly as if she had struck him. Even now, Laersul had gone to Silarôs' bedside to speak quietly to his wife, threading what peace he could through her poor broken heart before he took any rest for himself. Legolas was nowhere to be seen and Galion thought he must have slipped off quietly on his own. It was not unlike him when he was distressed, but Galion hoped he had gone first to Thranduil.

Galion leaned on the door post for a moment, watching his staff setting out food and drink in the kitchens for the warriors who had not yet gone to their own families; some lingered, needing to be with those who understood. Then he turned and took up a platter of food and a mug of warmed wine and left the hall, striding through the passages that wound through the light and airy caverns beneath the tree-covered hills.

To Galion it always felt like he walked through dense avenues of trees rather than caves, for every wall was carved with scenes of the forest or of feasting and dancing under the starlight. Gemstones gleamed and reflected the green-tinted light that filled the caverns and passages in the daytime. But at night, as now, great glass globes were lit and the light then was of every colour and the gemstones gleamed more brightly like miniature coloured flames. It was both like and unlike Menegroth, Galion thought, as he ran lightly up wide shallow steps. It was not as rich, or the caves as deep, and it did not have the same heavy, sonorous enchantment. Although there was enchantment here, it was older, more natural, of Fire and Earth and Air and Water. It was Thranduil's deep connection with his Woods and old magic.

He found the King in his rooms, clad in a simple hunting tunic of green suede and brown leather breeches, leaning over the same maps as before. He had removed the clasps of course, Galion noticed irritably, and there were the usual piles of books, the candlestick and a heavy paperweight holding the maps open. The clasps were on the table under a pile of scrolls.

'Have you seen Legolas yet?' Galion asked without preamble.

Thranduil looked up with sudden hope. 'Is he here?'

Absently, Galion moved the piles of books and the candlestick as he always did, and shoved the clasps over the edges of the map with a sigh. 'No. He has disappeared somewhere. I hoped he had been to see you first.'

Thranduil's face tightened a little and Galion knew that he bit down his disappointment. 'He has always needed to be amongst the trees when he is upset...I heard what happened,' Thranduil said. Galion was unsurprised that Thranduil knew, he seemed to know everything in his realm even as it happened. 'Is Laersul...?'

'He is with Silarôs. Before that, he was seeing to his men. He will be here in a moment I would think.'

Thranduil grunted agreement. 'He will not want to be comforted either. He has always been better at giving than receiving,' Thranduil said, resigned because he wanted to comfort all his sons and they had not come to him. It was, Galion thought, one of the prices they paid, for it was long since a woman had been part of their small family household, and not a day went by when he did not mourn that absence.

'Nauriel wanted her son to be a poet remember? Not a warrior,' Galion said with a sigh. 'He could not sing a note on key.' He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment for there was a strange prickling in the corner of his eyes.

Thranduil glanced at him and then quickly looked away.

Galion shook himself. 'It seems the Nazgûl rode out from Dol Guldur and assailed them,' he said. 'Two of them, as we thought. One was Khamûl.'

Thranduil barely glanced up. 'This is unsurprising,' he said. 'Have we not long known the Nazgûl occupied the Tower, have done almost since the day the Sit-On-Your-Arse White Council had sent the Necromancer-My-Arse packing. As you so accurately express it.'

'I am pleased to know, my Lord, that you were paying attention.' But in spite of the banter, they were both tense, waiting for Laersul, and both heavy with disappointment that they had not returned with Naurion or at least his body.

A light knock on the door came as a surprise to neither of them and both looked towards the opening door expectantly.

'Father.'

Laersul stood in the doorway, his tall frame obscured the torchlight from without and lit up his golden hair so like his father's. But for the grey-blue eyes he was very like Thranduil to look at, thought Galion. But there the resemblance stopped for where Thranduil was all whirling energy and power, like Air and Fire, Laersul was as steadfast as his name, and there was a quality of stillness about him rare in a Woodelf; Earth and deep waters, thought Galion remembering the quiet, earnest child that Laersul had been.

Thranduil took two strides across the room and enveloped his oldest son in an embrace, pulled his head down and kissed the top of his ear, for it had been a long time since he could reach the top of his head.

'You did well, Laersul. No one could have done more.'

Galion winced at the irony of the words he had spoken himself some weeks before, but Laersul looked away and rubbed his eyes with his hand. Galion knew he would be blaming himself, drenching himself in self-recrimination in the same way his father did.

'It was not still enough.' Laersul smoothed his hands over his head, over his braids as if reassuring himself they were there, that he deserved them.

Galion tutted and pushed him into the low, comfortable chair, and reached for the decanter. He poured rich amber wine into a goblet and pressed it into Laersul's hand.

'Galion says it is the good stuff,' Thranduil commented drily. He reached out towards the map table, groped for his own goblet of wine but found only the silver clasps; Galion pretended not to notice that he glared at the clasps as if they somehow were to blame. Finding his wine on the side table, Thranduil threw himself into his own chair, took a long drink, swirled it around his mouth and then leaned back, swallowing. His slate-green eyes came to rest on his tall son.

Laersul stared down at his hands, his full lips slack and suddenly a sob tore its way from his throat.

'Ah, Laersul,' Thranduil sounded as anguished as his son and he reached forwards to clasp his son's hand. Galion rested one buttock on the arm of Laersul's chair so he was lightly pressed against him. Laersul did not sob again and he did not weep.

They were patient, waiting for him to speak, and Galion let his mind go back to when the times were good, before the Shadow had come to Dol Guldur and they lived the simple, easy life they had dreamed of...

_...Trees reaching their high boughs upwards. Oropher throwing his head back, laughing loudly. Sunlight pouring over Amon Lanc, turning Oropher to gold and Thranduil gazing up at his father, adoringly..._

Galion rubbed his eyes and wondered how much more Vairë had to throw at the House of Oropher. These days he thought he drank wine more in sorrow than in merriment and spent his time more in dreams of the past than of the future.

Laersul took a breath, and swallowed some wine. He let his head fall back against the chair and began to speak.

He told Thranduil and Galion of those very trees that Galion had been remembering, in the deep forest where the pines grew tall, which had now become diseased and rotten. They had turned against the Elves who had once lived amongst them, and reached their twisted and gnarled branches to snarl the Elves as they fought their way towards their comrade before he was taken into the darkness of the Tower.

Thranduil clenched his fist slowly until the knuckles were white and his rings dug into his flesh as Laersul told how the Orcs they had pursued so relentlessly suddenly turned to attack, and the Nazgûl came then, their unearthly shrieks piercing the darkness. The Nazgûl's thin black shrouds seemed to spread and billow wider and wider, sorcery, so the ruined forest was veiled even to the Woodelves' keen eyes and a bank of grey fog rolled over them. The trees twisted and turned them so that they fled the wrong way and suddenly the Tower itself, Dol Guldur, had loomed up from the mist...

Laersul had tried to hold out, fought to reach the Orcs that still held Naurion, but they were being driven ever closer to the Tower. All the time, they could hear Naurion screaming, his voice hoarser, weaker.

Laersul swallowed the wine without tasting it. 'I did not dare fight on...We were surrounded and lost and the walls of Dol Guldur loomed up ahead of us. I ordered all our arrows loosed into the fog towards Naurion, and to retreat,' he said. 'We do not know if Naurion still lives.' He faltered. 'I...I cannot speak of it more, my lord. Please... Forgive me.'

Galion stirred, unable to sit any longer. He leapt to his feet and grasped the heavy decanter to refill Laersul's goblet, pressing his fingers against Laersul's hand in comfort as he did so. Laersul looked away and Galion guessed he did not believe he deserved comfort.

Thranduil glanced up at Galion in mutual sorrow. 'There is no comfort for any of us.' He reached out to touch Laersul gently on his cheek. 'You would not have one of your men berate himself and I beg you give yourself the same kindness.'

Laersul hid his eyes with one hand. 'I cannot forget the screaming, father. I never will. Naurion is but another added to the cries of those I have not saved from the Darkness.'

Thranduil twisted the ruby ring on his finger in uncharacteristic distress. 'It is so for all of us, Laersul. Even now, I do not forget Dagorlad when Orcs ran amongst our wounded and dying and took such glee in inflicting pain... And we could do nothing. Their screams haunt me still.'

How this bloody mess drive us backwards in time, Galion thought, and the memories were the same. It seemed to Galion that always they paid the price, always the Woodelves took the brunt, and whatever Thranduil said about Elrond, Galion knew what was in his heart...

_...Oropher lying dead on the bloody field at Dagorlad, Thranduil weeping, over his body, furious, shouting at Gil-Galad that he had deliberately held back and allowed the Woodelves to throw themselves recklessly at Sauron believing the Noldor to be following...that the Noldor had sacrificed the Woodelves so they had cut Sauron's forces for the Noldor who only then had entered the affray, with their strong armour and steel weapons...And Elrond taking it with unbearable compassion...It had been Galion who comforted Thranduil then, and he had turned in his despair, needing comfort, to feel another living body._

Galion shook himself slightly; it seemed he was plagued this night with nostalgia.

Thranduil lifted his head to look at his son. 'You could do no more. I would not have still more families in grief...And I would not lose you for all the world,' he said gently.

Laersul sighed as if it came from the deepest part of him.

'You have not seen Legolas I suppose,' he said at last. And then it was his turn to give Thranduil comfort and he leaned towards his father and clasped his hands so he ceased turning the ring on his finger. 'Legolas is by far the best archer amongst us so I charged him with this one task. I wish I had not. There was only one moment for the mercy.' He smoothed his hand over his head. 'Numbers of Orcs kept breaking off from the main group to engage us in battle, to slow us down for there were far more of them than us and the main group kept hurrying Naurion on ahead. Then for the first time, the only time, we could see Naurion...' He swallowed for the sight had been cruel. 'Legolas had drawn but I was down and three Orcs onto me. There was no one else to help me...Legolas hesitated and then it was too late.'

Galion let his gaze drop to the deep amber wine; Legolas had missed his shot. No wonder Nauriel was so desperate. No wonder the returning warriors had gathered about Legolas in pity and concern. No wonder the only company he sought now was his own. He was not the first, he would not be the last. 'Mercy is hard on everyone,' he said softly, aware of Thranduil's concern for him too. 'When it is not given it is harder than death.'

'It is why he will not come,' Laersul said quietly. 'Give him time, father. You know he will seek solace and peace amongst the trees first. He will come to you when he is ready.'

'And I must be content with that,' Thranduil said but try as he might to hide it, there was anguish in his voice and Galion watched, knowing how it grieved him that it Legolas on whom mercy depended, and that on his return, Legolas had not turned to him first.

'You need to eat something,' Galion said, noticing how exhausted Laersul was. 'And then you must sleep.'

Laersul shook his head. 'None of us will sleep well tonight, not yet,' he said heavily. 'I wonder where Thalos is.' He glanced over his shoulder to the map. 'Pray that he is safe.'

Thranduil had sunk back in his chair and his face was in shadow, though Galion could see his chest heave in fear for his last son still out there.

'He is most likely over the Gladden Fields and in the Hithaeglir now,' said Thranduil at last. 'They lost Gollum for a while but last we heard he was headed south and west...towards the Dimril Dale.' He leaned across and tugged at the map and then finding it secured, he made a sound of exasperation and pulled hard. The clasps pinged off while Galion watched irritably and resolved to glue the map onto the table when Thranduil was out hunting. Thranduil shook the map and smoothed it over his knees.

'If Gollum has made it to the Hithaeglir we will lose him in the mountains,' said Laersul slowly, leaning forwards to see the map. 'To continue our search it will mean going _beneath_ the Hithaeglir.' He pointed where the trail petered out and traced further. Then he raised his eyes to his father's face. 'The only way in that we know of is Moria.'

_Moria, the Black Pit. _The name itself sent a prickling chill down Galion's spine. He pulled at the map across Thranduil's lap and dragged it around so he could see the inked line more clearly. As Laersul said, it threaded its way across the Gladden Fields and for a while it lost itself in the Hithaeglir. Then more strongly it struck out and the line led unerringly towards Moria.

'Thalos will not wish to go into the Dark. But he will, if you command it.' Laersul met his father's eyes coolly.

'It is far closer to Lórien than us now. It must become _their _problem not ours. Let Galadriel deal with it,' Galion burst out. 'Hasn't she got some sort of magic mirror? And that accursed Ring she wears,' he said bitterly. He did not want Thalos going into the Pit. 'She can see where the misbegotten creature is and send some of the Galadhrim out for it. They have nothing else to do!' He felt a sense of dread creep over him at the thought and sent a quiet prayer to the Star-Kindler to light the way for the last son of Thranduil not yet returned.

'Thalos _could_ go to Lórien' Laersul ventured. 'She could perhaps tell him if Gollum is beneath the Mountains.'

The candle guttered, its flame suddenly long and smoking and Thranduil stared at it for a moment. Then he reached for a new, long white candle from a basket on the shelf behind him.

'Oropher moved north to escape her influence long ago,'** he said, holding the taper of the new candle over the long guttering flame of the old. 'Any help she gives is in riddles and I have no time for that.' He jammed the new-lit candle into the candlestick so wax bubbled over, spilled onto the table. 'Thalos would be no better off than he is now.'

Galion saw Laersul stifle a sigh of frustration. These sons do not understand, he thought. They do not know the Noldor. How could they? They had not lived through the bloody ages and Thranduil had brought them up as truly Silvan; as dangerous and as merry as Iluvatar intended Elves to be, he thought with quiet satisfaction, and if the Noldor thought them 'untutored', it was because the sort of tutoring the Noldor engaged in was simply not worth having, Galion thought with a sniff. Elrond was all right he supposed, but he was so mixed in his blood he owned kinship with everyone.

'Father,' Laersul had leaned forward and touched Thranduil's hand lightly. 'Then call Thalos back. He cannot hope to track Gollum through Moria if that truly is where he had gone. Even the Man, Aragorn, lost him there,' he said earnestly. 'Call Thalos back. Send a message to Mithrandir that his creature is gone,'

Thranduil met his son's steady gaze, considering.

Then slowly, without taking his eyes from Laersul's, he nodded. 'Very well.'

Both Galion and Laersul breathed but Thranduil gave them a stern look and said, 'Gollum is important in some way and we do not yet know for sure that we have lost him. So we will await Thalos' return and if he has not recovered Gollum, we will send messages to Mithrandir in Imladris.'

There was a moment of stillness, of relief, and Galion drained the last of his wine and Laersul rose to his feet slowly, wearily. Galion knew he would find Legolas before he retired; he knew where he would be, they all did.

Laersul looked down at his father for a moment and then said thoughtfully, 'Mithrandir was heading for Orthanc. Was there not a message from Radagast to send any messages there? '

Thranduil swirled the amber wine in his goblet. 'I do not wish to send messages of any kind to Curunír,' he said deliberately. 'There is something about him I do not trust, and he has never been our friend.' He looked at Galion briefly and a small smile tugged his lips. 'I sound most mistrustful,' he said wryly. 'Many a time has he scoffed at our belief that the Necromancer-my-Arse was the Enemy himself when even Galadriel thought us right...No, we will seek Mithrandir first in Imladris. If he is not there, Aragorn dwells there and will know how to find him. He is trusted by Mithrandir. If not, we might ask Elrond for advice I suppose,' he added grudgingly.

He pursed his lips and stared at the fire, lost in thought and Galion made a signal to Laersul that he might go. But Thranduil suddenly looked up. His eyes were clear, and the firelight that always loved him, gilded his hair. 'We will send a witness with the message. I want Mithrandir to know what the cost has been to our people of harbouring Gollum. I want him to understand the price we have paid for the kindness he bid us show.' He gazed into the depths of his goblet and closed his eyes briefly, his thoughts seeming to shift then, his voice to soften. 'I will be glad to have all my sons at home.'

0o0o0

Laersul walked beneath the silvered beeches but his heart was not soothed. Although his path was far from Nauriel's talan where she still keened, he hoped he would not meet anyone at all. He rubbed his hands over his face and then smoothed his braids wishing he had done more, ridden faster, more recklessly. There would be some who criticized he knew that. Some would say he should have ordered the _milui-criss*_ much sooner, others that Legolas should not have been the one charged with the shot, or that he should have made the shot and allowed others to cover Laersul...He breathed out. No one else could have made the shot that bought Laersul's life, and he supposed part of his guilt was that he lived and Naurion...well, he had no doubt that Naurion was dead by now.

The Forest River rushed ahead of him, its song unchanged, careless of the plight of the Elves; it rushed over granite and slate and through the ferny dells and gushed into still, shady pools where the brown trout moved lazily. This Song was in the hearts of all Woodelves, as was the wind in the tree-tops, but he listened also to the light green-gold notes that threaded their way through the moonlit forest and followed them to where he knew Legolas would be.

On the outer circles of the Woodelves' settlement at edge of the river was a tall and very ancient oak with wide spreading branches, cool in the Summer and its deep roots plunged into the earth. Its bark was silvery in the moonlight and Laersul grasped a low bole and climbed swiftly. The oak's song thrummed, twined with light notes of green-gold.

'Laersul...?' His brother's voice came down from the higher branches and he paused for a moment for Legolas sounded so unhappy. But when there was no further sound he resumed climbing, his strong hands finding handholds and pulling himself easily aloft. He paused briefly at the simple talan that Legolas often used, noting his bow and quiver, his long knives cast carelessly onto the narrow bed, his cloak cast over the wooden chest. A soldier's billet, nothing luxurious or homely, but he knew that to Legolas the trees and river were all the beauty and luxury he needed. He climbed higher into the topmost branches of the oak.

Sitting astride a wide branch was Legolas, outlined in silver. The moonlight seemed to catch in his long pale hair, and there were always leaves clinging to him as if the trees loved him most of all. Laersul smiled for he was being fanciful and that was unlike him. Legolas barely turned when his oldest brother crouched next to him and slid his long legs over the edge of the branch to dangle alongside his.

Laersul sat silently, very still, listening to the songs of the trees and the stars. He heard the oak's slow song and its deep green cadence; its slow rhythm thrust strongly into the earth, reaching roots, pushing leaves upwards, washed with moonlight and sunlight, the sap pulsing through its veins and filling the leaves so they unfurled and stretched.

Breathing in the clean air of the forest, Laersul let the song of the oak and the river soothe and gentle his spirit. After the twisted trees and the corruption of the South, he needed green things around him, life pulsing like the blood in his veins.

At last he gently cupped Legolas' cheek and pulled his youngest brother's head down onto his own shoulder and felt Legolas slump suddenly, resting against him.

'I still have not thanked you,' he said softly.

Laersul closed his eyes and listened for Legolas' own sweet song of green-gold that threaded through the notes of the trees and stars... There, it washed the air around Laersul and he felt immersed as if in a shaded pool of water and with sunlight filtering through the pale green leaves. But there was not the usual lightness and joy that danced through Legolas' song, but instead a well of sorrow like the rolling of waves that he had seen on the Long Lake, endless, sonorous. Laersul did not seek to drown it with his own Song; he merely let Legolas rest against him and listened.

0o0o0

**22nd September**

The sun shone on the Woods and the leaves began to turn. The deep song of the great oaks had slowed still further as they turned their thoughts to sleep and the Elves gathered the harvest and made plans for the winter. Thranduil had charged everyone to make sure supplies were more plentiful, better stored, more secure and that the light and airy caverns of the stronghold were ready for as many Elves as needed, for they could all feel the storm gathering. The birds of the Forest who were friends of the Elves had brought tidings that the Nine had crossed the Fords of the Isen and it disturbed the Woodelves more than they thought possible. That the Nazgûl had abandoned Dol Guldur was no comfort to anyone and still the talans were empty and many of the Elves remained in the stronghold. The Raft-elves brought news from Esgaroth that there were strange doings in the lands of Men, and the Dwarves were restless and had been busy in the Mountain, shoring up their defences and urging Dale and Esgaroth to do likewise.

Legolas had hoped his father would send a small troop, himself included of course, to ascertain how serious this was but Thranduil seemed to take this news in his stride, as if he knew anyway. And Galion had been most insistent that no one could be spared anyway; that every last apple, every last grain had to be gathered in, and so had set everyone, including Thranduil, to the harvest of the apple trees that were on the edge of the forest and spread out into the low meadows.

It was evening and they had still not finished the day's work though the sun's rays were low across the ground and the world was settling into dusk.

Legolas was carefully picking apples along a particular branch that would take him directly into the path of Theliel; she was leaning over to pick some ripe red apples, her long black hair falling over her shoulder and her front of her dress dipped just as enticingly. Legolas was thoroughly enjoying the view except that Laersul, who was in the same tree, and moving along the same branch as Theliel, kept getting in the way. Laersul suddenly turned and looked over his shoulder at Legolas, caught his eye and grinned. Legolas was outraged.

'Theliel, these apples are particularly ripe,' he called, exasperated.

Theliel's grey eyes peered over Laersul's broad shoulder and Laersul leaned down and whispered something to her so she laughed merrily and Legolas rolled his eyes. But Theliel did move slightly past Laersul then and the next apples she picked brought her closer to Legolas.

He deliberately reached for the same apple that she seemed about to pick when he thought he heard the echo of a song coming through the forest, and he turned...It danced lightly across the leaves, sparkled on the river and leaped through the heavy boughs of the apple trees. He saw that Thranduil, who was stacking the apples so they would not spoil, had also straightened and was looking into the forest, his long hand shading his eyes. Slowly, others raised their heads or leaped down from the trees, and Legolas looked excitedly at Laersul, Theliel forgotten for the moment. He jumped down from the tree he was in and grabbed at his brother excitedly. An answering gleam was in Laersul's grey-blue eyes.

'Thalos!' he cried excitedly and set off after Thranduil, who was already taking long strides towards the Forest Path. Legolas whooped in delight and set off running, matching Laersul's long strides and overtaking Thranduil. There were other voices raised in welcome and delight, for Thalos and his hunters had returned.

Glad voices raised in song, a very different homecoming from the last one, and then Thalos was there, long bow slung over his shoulder and green eyes sparkling; he seemed blown in on the wind, smelt of the last warmth of the Summer and the open plains beyond the Woods. There were leaves in his long dark hair as if the trees had let their leaves fall upon him as a greeting and he laughed, such a glad sound and so full of merriment. The three returning hunters looked tired and strained but the relief of returning was so great they seemed lit from within. Laersul and Legolas were the first to reach them and Laersul shoved Legolas out of the way with brotherly affection and reached Thalos first, enveloping him in a great bear hug and trying to lift Thalos off the ground. Legolas almost danced around them trying to pull Laersul off and Laersul tried to keep Legolas at a distance with one hand. Other Elves arrived and surrounded the returning hunters with cries of welcome and relief.

'You are too short by a head little brother!' Laersul laughed and ruffled Legolas' hair irritatingly but Thalos drew Legolas into the embrace, his bright eyes darting over the crowd of Elves that gathered to welcome them home, seeking out Thranduil who was half-running towards him.

Galadhon and Nemir's families quickly surrounded them drew them off to their own homes and both Legolas and Laersul drew back to let their father in.

The four of them stood close and said little for a moment, each hearing the others' songs and hearing his own amplified by those closest to him. Legolas breathed in, the smell of the forest, leaves and berries and the shady ferns and clear forest river...He felt Thranduil's song soar, its deep, mellowed notes like wine and moonlight and the forest glades and the crown of autumn berries he wore at the feasts.

After a while Thalos reached out and cupped Legolas' cheek lightly and turned his face towards him, searching his face. Thalos' green eyes were full of concern and Legolas dipped his gaze, he could not bear any more sympathy or condemnation. But Thalos simply tapped him on the nose lightly with his forefinger as he used to when Legolas was a child and Thalos a warrior of renown.

'Still shorter than me, Squirt,' he said.

'Still stupider than me, Lackwit,' Legolas returned unimaginatively with the same response he had developed when he was a child and had never found one better or more fun. Thalos cuffed him lightly on the side of the head and Legolas found himself grinning stupidly at his tall, valiant brother.

Thranduil threw his arm around Thalos' shoulder and drew them all away, towards the kitchen for Galion had already gone within.

Legolas dropped back to walk with Laersul and allowed his father to have sole possession of his brother, who was complaining about the smell of his hunters and their lack of delicacy and Thranduil was leaning into him and enjoying having him home. Around them, the families of Galadhon and Nemir were walking slowly towards their talans in a similar way, heads bent towards those closest, sharing news, glad that they were home and safely gathered in.

'At least there is someone he will listen to now,' muttered Legolas to Laersul and when Thranduil shot a look back over his shoulder, he gave a blazingly innocent smile that fooled no one.

'Ah but he listens to me,' Laersul replied smugly. 'It's only you. And who can blame him?' he added mischievously. 'Ow.'

Having restored his honour, Legolas reached around Laersul's shoulder, for in spite of his brothers' assertions that he was shorter than they, it was less than half a head. They followed Thalos and Thranduil over the bridge into the stronghold where Galion would be frantically preparing far too much food and drink and enjoying himself immensely.

'I am starving,' Thalos was saying cheerfully. 'Nothing but black squirrels and goblin for months. I am going to eat and eat and eat until I am quite sick and you have no food left. Then I am going to dance in the Woods with all the maidens who will have me!' He glanced over his shoulder at his brothers and his eyes gleamed wolfishly. 'Galadhon and Nemir are neither good cooks nor good company.' He gave them an enormous and outrageous wink.

'We will have a feast and dancing in the forest glades,' declared Thranduil, apparently oblivious but Legolas saw him smile.

'You should go away more often,' Laersul clapped Thalos on the back. 'Let us go hunting tomorrow morning, see if you can bring down a deer for the feast, Legolas.' He glanced down at Legolas' bowed head and winced. Shaking his head at his own crassness, Laersul leaned down conspiratorially to whisper, 'See if you cannot hide those silver map clasps when next you are in father's study. It will drive Galion wild.'

Legolas smiled. 'Even better, I will hide two clasps,' he whispered back, 'and take away the goblets so they are both driven wild and blame each other.' Laersul laughed loudly enough for Thranduil, who had heard only the laughter and not the reason, to throw them a pleased look over his shoulder at his sons.

He did not want to ruin Thalos' homecoming, but Legolas could not shake off thoughts of that terrifyingly reckless chase into the South of the Forest. And the ignominious return empty-handed in every sense. Even Laersul was now doubting his ability to shoot something, although he had tried to cover it up quickly Legolas thought. He remembered how he had finally gone to his father in the early morning light and Thranduil had drawn him into his arms like he was still a child, and Legolas had leaned on his father's deep chest and listened while he hummed an old woodland lullaby...and it was only then that he wept for Naurion and his childhood friends, Celdir and Anglach.

Legolas berated himself again for his carelessness, blamed himself for allowing Gollum the freedom to climb the tree, and he found his hand clutching again at the cloth above his heart for it hurt when he thought of it.

He found Laersul's hand over his now and his older brother's calm blue-grey eyes upon him, compassionate and sorrowful. He breathed in through his nose and shook his head, wishing they would leave him be to feel the pain; he deserved it.

'You must let this make you burn brighter, Legolas,' he said softly. 'Do not turn it inwards and let it consume you.'

Perhaps they heard in spite of Laersul's softness for both Thalos and Thranduil turned and Thranduil held out his free arm to Legolas. Sheepishly he went forwards and was tucked under his father's arm like a duckling.

0o0o0o

tbc

**Notes**

*merciful- or giving mercy: this refers to the 'merciful cut', the _milui-criss_ as the Wood-elves call it. (mentioned later in the chapter) In Thranduil's realm, they have long battled the Shadow and when one of them is taken by Orcs and there is no chance of releasing them, the Elves will instead try to release their feä by shooting them dead. It is only the most skillful archer asked to do this of course and in this case, they do not know if they hit Naurion or not. Normally the family would pay the archer a 'price' so that it is acknowledged that the archer has done them a great service but is not a kin-slayer. This is what Gandalf proposed Elrohir to do on the mountain in Sons of Thunder. ( This is not canon but something I invented for Sons but am happy for others to use with an acknowledgement.)

*Oropher moved away from Lothlorien to escape Galadriel's influence. (Silm) It would be reasonable to expect Thranduil to feel the same about her, but in LOTR there is no sense at all that Legolas feels this and therefore I think Thranduil brought his sons up free of the memories and history of the 2nd Age and 3rd Age feuds, etc. In LOTR Legolas seems remarkably uninformed in LOTR- he knows nothing of Hollin or what Durin's Bane is although he recognises it as a Balrog, and I have tried to reflect that in this story.

References to the Dragon connected to the story of how Thranduil went to Erebor during Smaug's reign, and the dragon is part of the yaré-camë (Ancient Art) that some silvan warriors bear. Not a tale to be told now.

Reference to Galion's secret yearning for Thranduil are of course, not canon. But Jael wrote a lovely story, The Rose in the Fisted Glove, which I am sure has nudged me into thinking of Galion in this way.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer - as usual. No money, pure self-indulgence

Beta" Anarithilien.

Thank you to those nice folk who drop a line reviewing and encouraging.

Warning: OK, I really thought this was a new story completely but I have a lovely haunting image of Elrohir and it looks like this will end up a prequel to Sons of Thunder and Songs of Rohan/ Deeper than Breathing. I can't help it- tried not to make it slashy but you know, I just can't help myself. Very mild mention of sexual activity in this chapter- it's probably going to get a bit more explicit later, when Legolas gets to Rivendell, so if that is going to offend you, you might want to read something else.

**Chapter 3: A decision made**

With the warmth of good food and good wine mingled with singing and laughter, Legolas felt comfortable and relaxed and only in need of one more thing to make him replete. He looked for Theliel, for she had made a point of sitting next to him earlier during the feast and pressed herself against his body more than once, producing a very pleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach...and more importantly, his groin. He pushed himself off the tree against which he had been leaning and set off in search.

Around the clearing were lots of other groups of Elves, singing, laughing, eating, and some were dancing. Silver and white gems on necklaces and sewn onto clothes flashed in the firelight and music filled the air. The boar Laersul had brought down on their hunt was turning on the spit, so the smell of roasting meat filled the air, fat dripped onto the fire and spat and crackled. Galion had refused to bring out the deer that Legolas had brought down or the ducks, saying that the boar was quite enough and they needed to store food for the times ahead, but there was no shortage of delicious things to eat.

Galion was leaning across a table and gazing in drunken adoration at a lovely woman whose husband was sitting beside her but talking to his neighbour. She was blushing prettily and Legolas thought Galion looked positively lecherous. He wondered if he should drag Galion away before things got out of hand but he had his own interests to take care of: Theliel.

Flames leapt and danced from the bonfires, which were lit in four places in the clearing. Above his head were huge glimmering lanterns of glass, some were blues and silver for air, red for fire and green for earth and they swung from the branches of the trees. Above the glade, the stars were huge and bright and seemed closer to the earth as if they wished to see what the Elves were doing. All over the feast, different songs and different voices were raised, and they became louder and mixed with laughter as the different groups of singers competed with each other to be the loudest. Thranduil sent a wineskin to the loudest group and they were cheering him loudly.

At the head of one of the great circles of merry Elves sat Thranduil with a crown of autumn leaves and berries upon his hair. Legolas felt his breath catch for a moment remembering; he and Anglach had been children and his brothers had teased them that the berries were in case Thranduil got hungry. Anglach had stared at Thranduil with enormous wide eyes. He found himself constantly reminded of Celdir and Anglach and it seemed a betrayal not to think of them, to remember them. If they were here, all three of them would have been drinking and gambling together and he suddenly felt their loss so keenly it hurt his chest and his hand clutched the fabric over his heart for a moment.

At that moment Galion passed him and paused. Legolas dropped his hand back to his side and looked away nonchalantly for he was tired of being fussed over. But Galion merely caught his empty cup and poured more wine into it, smiling. 'You are not nearly drunk enough to come and carouse on my talan tonight, Legolas. I want to make sure we keep my neighbour awake until dawn. He might even come and see what the noise is about and join us!' Galion fixed him with a knowing eye until Legolas tossed the wine down his throat. 'It's not the good stuff,' Galion grinned too late to sip and the raw burning in his throat confirmed it was certainly not the good stuff. 'It's from the Edges and is made of moonlight they say. '

'It's from the Edges and made of dragon's piss!' gasped Legolas coughing. 'Give me some more.' It made him burn all the way down to his belly and groin and stopped him thinking. Galion filled his cup far too full and winked lasciviously strutting past a group of women, who laughed and called him over.

There were many Elves who looked up at Legolas too as he passed, met his eye with a glimmer of interest, and some he caught long enough and smiled to let them know he returned their interest. But he really thought Theliel had something about her that he liked. She was older than he was, Laersul's contemporary rather than his, and she had, he thought, been out to catch his older brother, but Laersul would not bite. She was intelligent and she made him laugh and he always sought lovers with whom he could laugh as well as love. Grey eyes and long black hair always drew him, as if a forerunner of something more lasting...Ah. He spotted her beneath the trees, leaning against it and with her hands behind her. Her eyes were cast down and she kept glancing up demurely into the face of the Elf who leaned towards her, close and making her laugh.

Hm. Legolas pursed his lips and thought for a moment. It was, of course, Thalos this time. But he knew how to get rid of him.

He sauntered over, casting his gaze about as if looking for something, someone and then drew close to Thalos.

'Ah, Thalos!' he said trying to combine cheerfulness and innocence with, he thought, some conviction. 'At last. The King has been asking for you this past while. He was most insistent.' Legolas had deliberately used _the King _to impress upon Thalos that it was in an official capacity that Thranduil requested him and not as his father.

Thalos looked up. His green eyes sparkled shrewdly. 'Really, Legolas? How strange. I was with him but a moment ago and he bid me go off and enjoy the feast.'

Legolas moved closer, maneuvered himself so he stood too close to Theliel and his brother, intrusively. 'You know how impulsive he is,' he said airily. '

'Then he could change his mind in a moment and he will wait.'

Legolas sensed a certain cynicism from his brother so he leaned forwards and whispered conspiratorially, 'He is in his cups, and he and Galion are arguing.'

Was Vairë smiling upon him? For it just so happened that as Thalos looked towards the King, Galion had indeed leaned across to Thranduil and called something that he responded to with a rather cross and grumpy expression on his handsome face, it made him look like you would not want to cross him. And even better, he caught his sons looking at him at that precise moment and beckoned them both over irritably.

'It's you he wants,' they both said at exactly the same time. Then, 'No. You!'

There was a stifled giggle and the last thing they saw was Theliel slipping away into the trees with her hand in Laersul's. Of all people!

'Dûrkë!' spat Thalos. Legolas raised his eyebrows slightly for he had only ever heard Thranduil say that word before and Legolas had had his ears washed out by Galion to make sure he did not remember it.

'He has been ignoring her pursuit for years. Why now?' Legolas complained. 'She was pressing up against me in a very enticing way at the feast.'

'She has been leading me a merry dance!' exclaimed Thalos in disgust but Legolas saw that he was already looking around the clearing for unattached Elves, much as he did himself.

'She will soon discover her mistake,' Legolas sighed. 'He is so old! She's been after him for years, and only now that she pursues me is he interested! He will not be able to keep up and soon she will realise younger is fresher and more eager.' He straightened and glanced at Thalos who was staring morosely around the clearing. Many of the unmarried Elves had coupled off or were in small groups.

'You are mistaken if you think she was pursuing you. I have wasted _hours_ courting her,' Thalos said irritably and Legolas laughed.

'Hours! What a terrible waste in your long, long life,' he slid a mischievous glance at him, 'only to find that she prefers our big brother.'

'How can that be?' Thalos asked, outraged and Legolas laughed even louder and punched Thalos softly on his arm. Thalos laughed then too and they shared a grin.

'She used us both to ensnare Laersul,' Legolas said amused and lifted his eyebrow wryly. He saw that Miriel was sitting with Lossar and both were looking at him in an inviting way. He liked both of them and tilted his head to get a better look, and keeping their gaze he raised his cup to them in salute and promise.

'My heart too is broken,' Thalos said grinning widely and lifted his own cup to Legolas in a toast. 'Will we ever recover?'

'I am already in demand,' Legolas said smugly. 'And when I return from my journey there will be none who can resist,' he added, watching Miriel bend her head towards Lossar and say something that made them both laugh. Lossar's dark eyes cut towards Legolas teasingly.

Thalos snagged a jug of wine from a passing Elf who shook his head and laughed when he saw who it was. Thalos' eyes followed the Elf as he passed. 'He has always fancied me,' he said vainly and slid his hand sensuously along his long dark hair. 'What journey?' he asked without particular interest.

'The King will send me to Rivendell, of course,' Legolas said and pushed himself away from the tree he leaned against. 'Who else is there?'he asked as he moved towards Miriel and Lossar.

Thalos looked up astonished and grasped his sleeve, pulling him back. 'It will not be you, Legolas,' he said in concern. 'It will be me, or Laersul if he can spare him.' He threw his arm round Legolas' shoulder and Legolas stiffened. 'You are about as diplomatic as an Orc, Legolas. He will not even send you to Esgaroth!'

'He _will_ send me this time,' Legolas said, feeling a little defensive. Surely he was not that bad? 'It is only as a messenger,' he added wondering how quickly his mood had changed from lustful promise to sulky childishness.. 'There isn't a council or anything, no trade to negotiate. And anyway, I have grown up a lot since then.' He wondered why he spent so much time with his family telling them he was grown up when he was so long past his coming of age and no one else ever doubted his ability.

'What is that Thranduil says about you in council?' Thalos clapped him on the shoulder. 'As subtle as a dwarf with a hammer?'

'With a hangover,' Legolas corrected him grumpily. He was not as skilled as Thalos, or Laersul but he was no fool. Surely Thalos could see the sense in his going? A strange yearning was in his heart, not just a youthful wanderlust to see beyond the Woods. True, he had travelled beyond the forest to Esgaroth, Dale and even the Lonely Mountain, but this was something more, something that drew him like a scent that once was familiar and now forgotten. It was something that almost called him, making him wonder what it would be like to see real mountains where the snow lay undisturbed and eagles soared high above. And if he was honest, in spite of what Laersul had said to him about burning brighter and not allowing the pain to turn inwards, there was atonement too; it was his fault. He had been amongst Gollum's guards that night they were set upon. And he had missed the milui-criss. Unforgiveable. That more than anything, he needed to atone.

'I can read your mind,' Thalos said warningly. 'He will say no.' Then his voice softened a little. 'Legolas,' he said, leaning down to look into Legolas' face, 'He is right in this. You are amongst our best archers, you know that, and you have fought at Erebor - you have nothing to prove. And we cannot spare you.'

But his voice trailed off and he watched someone. Legolas turned and saw that it was Nauriel and that she was speaking to their father. Most of the Elves around Legolas had not noticed and the singing and feasting continued and he could not hear her words. She gesticulated angrily, throwing her hand out to indicate the feast it seemed, and Thranduil's face assumed the impassive mask of kingship, of stone.

Thranduil did not interrupt her, and when she finally finished, he turned his fierce gaze upon her and spoke so quietly that only she could hear and she staggered back, breathing hard as if she had been struck even though he had not lifted his hand. When she turned and fled, her face was white. Thranduil lifted his goblet and his hand was steady as a rock as he sipped the wine. He smoothly turned back to the Elves with whom he had been speaking before Nauriel came.

Suddenly aware that Thalos had left his side and that the singing around him had faltered, Legolas swung his gaze to Galion, who had focused all his attention on Thranduil's face and was intent. Galion pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the lovely woman he had been flirting with and was instantly at Thranduil's side, discretely topping his goblet. He slid into a seat next to him and smoothly took over telling some story which quickly had the small group laughing. Although Thranduil smiled along with the others in the group, Legolas could see his eyes were chips of ice and he wondered what in all of Arda Nauriel had said to make Thranduil so full of cold fury; he rarely was truly angry at anyone but the Enemy, and the Noldor...and Dwarves. He had certainly only been full of compassion for Nauriel until then.

Music flooded the glade then and one of the minstrels strolled into the clearing, strumming a harp. Everyone settled then to listen and Legolas looked about him. Many of the other Elves could not have heard what Nauriel had said and seemed unaware that anything untoward had happened, but some of the Elves nearest Thranduil had expressions of distress or concern on their faces. He saw Thalos returning to him, his face grave. 'She cursed him,' he said.

Legolas turned to him, shocked. 'What did she say?'

Thalos was quiet for a moment and then he rubbed his eyes. 'She said she wished that he would know what it was to lose a son.'

Legolas gasped, unable to speak and Thalos turned back to peruse the clearing.

'It is not often that someone wishes your death,' Thalos acknowledged rather too glibly. 'She should have her wish, for the Shadow comes. And there are three of us so the odds are good. So you must stay in the forest, little brother. We need you to guard our backs as you did Laersul. And even if no one else will say it, I am glad Laersul lives even it was at Naurion's expense. I still shudder at the thought that both of you were so far south.'

Legolas looked away and pulled at the cuff of his shirt slightly. He was not sure what he thought about this but there was, deep in his heart, a warmth and gladness that at least someone thought he had done right. But at the same time he was strangely unsettled by Nauriel's curse. He wondered what Thranduil had said in response for she had looked like the ghost of Smaug himself had appeared. He was about to ask Thalos but he found he did not really want to know; Legolas had seen the King in both hot rage and cold fury, but this had been worse than anything. He had glimpsed in his father a cold stone that was implacable, and that he had never seen before in Thranduil either as his father or his King.

'I have never understood why the Nazgûl and Orcs are so determined to travel into our realm to harass us when Lórien is so close,' said Legolas, He shook his head slowly for he and his fellow warriors had often pondered this. 'We should attack Dol Guldur now while the Nazgul are absent, Thalos. Lórien might even help.'

When Thalos did not reply, he thought his brother probably knew a lot more than he did, but it had never rankled him. He would prefer not to know. But if he was not one of the Wise, he was not a quite fool either. He turned to look at Thalos fully. 'Is that in the King's mind then, Thalos? Did you make a detour to Lórien on your way home?'

Thalos grinned and ruffled his hair so it was tousled and stuck out and though he tried to bat Thalos' hand away, he was taller and reached above him. 'You are not as stupid as you look!' said Thalos, grinning at him. 'But he will still not send you to Imladris. It will be Laersul he sends for I am going elsewhere.'

'Elsewhere? What does that mean?'

'There are strange reports coming from Dale and the King wishes to make sure our allegiances are secure.' For all of them when they referred to their father as Thranduil or the King, it meant official business, not family. Legolas wondered what was happening in Dale that made Thranduil order his second, and most diplomatic son there.

'He will let me go if you tell him to,' Legolas said determinedly. 'You know I am the best person. It's only to tell Mithrandir what happened, not like there will be any meetings or councils. It's not like I have to actually represent the Woods,' he pleaded. 'All I have to do is tell Mithrandir what it was like, what happened and then leave. I _can_ do this.'

Thalos laughed then, but kindly. He gave him a sidelong look that was considering, appraising. 'Thranduil has decided to send Alagos,' he said then and Legolas gave an exasperated sigh.

'Am I never going to be allowed anywhere beyond Esgaroth?' he said.

'You have been to Dale and Erebor.'

'I have been to Dale, true. And I have been allowed to _look_ at the Dwarves but not stare! And I was not allowed to speak in Dale.'

Thalos smiled and nudged him. 'Do not be in such a rush. Perhaps he will send you to Lórien instead.'

'He will never let me set foot in Lórien,' Legolas slurped wine gloomily. 'He wouldn't trust me.'

'It's not just you he wouldn't trust,' Thalos said cryptically, glancing at his brother's sweet face and his long flaxen hair.

Some of the Elves had begun lining up to begin the Fire-Leap. More dry wood was being thrown onto the fire to build it higher and the flames leaped and danced and the women joined hands and made a large circles around the bonfires. They were not so foolish to take part. It was for the young men to show off.

'Look, Laersul's going first!' Thalos nudged Legolas. They laughed for he was definitely showing off to Theliel.

Later, flushed with wine and exertion, there were only five Elves left still leaping. One was Legolas, and Thalos had just bowed out. The flames cast a red-yellow glow around the clearing and lit up the Elves still passing bowls around, pouring wine, singing, laughing. Firelight glinted on the green and white and silver gems on their collars and belts and on the necklaces of the women. Legolas was about to take his next leap. The fires had been stoked higher so flames leaped and flared and the smoke rose into the sky through the cleared area between the trees.

Suddenly he felt the world tilt and he thought the smoke was yellow, and instead of singing, there was screaming. They were running, not dancing and it was steel glinting instead of gems...

The world righted itself and he looked around himself startled. There was Thranduil, watching, waiting for him to leap and Galion leaning against him, arm thrown around Thranduil's shoulder, drunk and slurring affectionately at the King. Laersul stood nearby with Thalos, their heads bent talking quietly, and some sweet maidens waited for him on the other side of the fire, even cheered for him. Miriel and Lossar were there too.

He shook his head slightly, took a few long strides and leaped into the air, flew over the bonfire and crashed into the maidens, tumbling over and landing at Miriel and Lossar's feet. There were excited giggles from the maidens and he was showered with small white flowers they had been holding in their hands and he looked up at their lovely faces smiling beatifically.

'Oh, I think I am hurt,' he grinned and let them drop to their knees around him in consternation, their hands fluttered around him, and he basked in their concern.

0o0o0

Legolas let his hand trail over the silvery bark of the beech trees and looked up into their high, graceful boughs. These were Thranduil's favourite trees and this was where he had his talan, near the river, near the Keep. After the feast few Elves had felt like returning to the stronghold in spite of the recent attack, not even the king. Legolas heard a small harp's fluid notes high up in the trees, an old silvan love song, and he knew the player was his father, for Thranduil was a very skilled musician, even amongst the Woodelves. He wondered if Thranduil had played it to his mother.

A small group of Elves passed and greeted him. They strolled along the river bank. He saw that Miriel was amongst them and she gave him a smile. 'We are joining Galadhon and his family for evening meal,' she told him. 'Come with us.' Others joined their voices to hers but Legolas shook his head seriously.

'I have something I need to ask the King,' he told them. They laughed and tried to cajole him further and Miriel caught at his hand. 'Maybe later,' he agreed, remembering the night before and her silken skin, the fragrance of her body roused and lost in desire.

He watched them for a moment as they wandered away between the trees to the glade where Galadhon lived in his small cottage on the ground, for not everyone lived on talans. Where there were children, often the cottages had more room. He was a little surprised though that Galadhon was one of the Elves who resisted the safety of the caves, for he had small children. But Legolas understood too for he loved being in the Woods and slept best on his high talan amongst the oaks. Miriel turned to look at him as they disappeared between the trees and he hoped she understood there was no more to their coupling than there was. He chewed his lip slightly. There had been no such misunderstanding later on, with Lossar, but he would be surprised if there had been.

He set his hand on the lowest bole of the beech and began to climb, swiftly making his way up into the topmost branches where a more substantial talan was built. It was not grander or larger than any other Woodelf's talan, but like all the oldest talans, it had been built over many years, and with grace and elegance. The carvings were ornate but not ostentatious and the sweep of the curved edge of the talan was bevelled and carved with vine leaves. The way onto the talan was no mere hole in the platform as Legolas' own talan was; it seemed the wood had fashioned itself around a space and the silver wood of the talan merged to become part of the tree itself. There was no furniture, just a woven rug, cushions and a cloak hanging over the branches. Yet in spite of the simplicity, it felt sumptuous. He saw an earthenware jug of wine, a platter of rare meat, pewter goblets shining dully, a wooden board with creamy cheese and a carved bowl of apples. Above, the autumnal canopy filtered the sunlight coolly and dappled the shade. A simple woven reed screen had been secured to shelter Thranduil from the westerly wind that brought tales and dreams from distant shores. Those were unwelcome.

Thranduil sat cross legged and lounging slightly against large blue velvet cushions and in his hands the small harp Legolas had heard as he ascended. The sunlight brushed Thranduil's deep golden hair and it shone. Then he raised his green eyes to Legolas and it looked like all the colour from the Woods had been absorbed into them; it was uncanny, but Legolas knew of the King's deep connection with their forest, that the trees knew and acknowledged him somehow, that the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth knew him and bowed...and the liquid notes of the Woods thrummed his heartstrings and he felt the Song resonate deep in his blood and bones and sinew and muscle.

'You hear it. It was always strong for you. Most Silvan of us all you are, my leaf.'

Legolas smiled in spite of the childish nickname- it had always been affectionate. He sat on the cushions, close to his father, and felt his warmth while Thranduil let his long fingers drift over the harp strings a moment longer before he set it aside and rose to his feet. 'Wine?'

Legolas nodded, Thranduil always had decent wine and watched him pour wine into a pewter goblet, its soft silver gleam reflected the ruby ring Thranduil always wore.

Thranduil sank back onto the cushions, leaned on one elbow and looked out over the tops of the trees, for his talan was very high and the tree in which it was built was on the side of the hill beneath which the palace and stronghold were. The evening wind played in the treetops and the purple emperor butterflies danced in the tops of the oak and beech trees. It amused Legolas no end that Galion's talan was in the next tree, too close to be quite polite in silvan society, and below the King's. Sometimes Thranduil had complained about the noise. And sometimes, not that Thranduil knew, it had been Legolas who had been making the noise.

'A lovely evening,' was all Thranduil said and Legolas shifted, wondering how to broach the subject he wanted to raise. He did not want his father to think he had only come because he wanted something, and he knew that he would get no favours from the _King_ because he was his son. 'Did you end your evening well yesterday?' Thranduil asked and a smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

The feast had indeed ended well and Legolas grinned.

Amused, Thranduil lifted an eyebrow. 'It ended well for all of you I think. I have not seen Laersul all day.'

'I feel used,' said Legolas but he smiled too.

'Yes, I can see how upset you were,' Thranduil replied drily. 'You showed misery in every line of your body as you danced with all those maidens. And then the fire-leaping. Galion was most concerned.'

'Galion was most occupied,' Legolas said and his grin widened.

'Galion was carousing most of the night,' said Thranduil mildly.

'Did you not go and join him?'

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow wryly and they both smiled at each other and turned back to the evening sky that was deepening from the sunset to dusk. A small bat whisked over the treetops.

Although neither spoke of Nauriel, it hung between them. It was too raw a wound for both of them, Legolas thought.

Thranduil sipped his wine and looked at Legolas over his goblet. His green eyes had flecks of gold in them, like a falcon, and was as piercing and astute. Legolas had never been able to hide anything from his father even if he had wanted to.

'Are you much recovered now, child?'

Legolas dipped his eyes, half smiling. _Child? _That hardly boded well for the request he intended to make.

Thranduil did not have to see the mild annoyance to know it was there. He raised an eyebrow, amused. 'You will always be my child, whether you fight in the battles or love in the treetops, Legolas. Whatever you do, when I look at you I see that tiny body that I could fit in the crook of my arms and for whom I whittled a pony when he lay belly-down in the long grass wheedling.'

Legolas smiled, remembering that long Summer day he had had his father all to himself...

…_sawdust and shavings lay on the grass around him and Legolas looked up wonderingly at his tall father, so big and sometimes stern, sitting quietly, cross-legged on the daisy-scattered grass. His long, clever fingers lightly held a silver knife and pale slivers of wood peeled away under his skillful hands._

_'What is it?' Legolas' own childish voice piped up. He was lying on his tummy on the grass next to Thranduil, chin in his hands and legs swinging behind him. He had been watching an ant wrestle a breadcrumb into its strong jaws to take home to its family. Legolas wanted to help but he knew now that sometimes when he tried to help, it did not help at all. Laersul had said to him only that morning that sometimes he had to let Nature win. So he was trying to do just that and not interfere._

_Thranduil had slowly raised his eyes to look at his youngest son. A slow smile eased across his strong noble face._

_'It is a horse, child,' he said and Legolas felt a spurt of excitement._

_'Is it Mithren?' he asked, thinking of his father's big grey stallion. Legolas was a little afraid of Mithren. His hooves were enormous, and sometimes when he shook his head the whole world seemed to shake._

_'No.'_

_Legolas watched a little while longer. Of course it was not Mithren, he realised. This was much smaller. Shorter. He knew it could not be either of his brothers' horses either for they were big like Mithren. If either of their horses had such short legs, they would have their feet dragging on the ground. Legolas snorted with laughter at the thought of Laersul or Thalos riding short ponies and being able to stand up as the ponies trotted off from under them._

_Of course! 'It is a pony,' he realised. And then he sighed heavily but did not speak his desire because his father would be cross if he whined and he was enjoying having this peaceful time with him. But he really really wanted a pony. One that would run on the grass under the trees and stars. Star. That's what he would call it. Or Starlight._

_He realised the soft sound had ceased and glanced up to find Thranduil looking at him with concern but too quickly smoothed away when Legolas saw him. He wondered what his father was worried about. He knew Thranduil had been very angry about the Orcs but that was not Legolas's fault. He thought hard to see if he had done something that would annoy or upset his father. He could not think of anything but sometimes grown ups seemed to get upset over nothing._

Legolas breathed through his nose, but his eyes were soft with memory. 'I am much recovered, father.' It was always Orcs.

There was a comfortable silence. A smell of leaves and late sumer grass. A blackbird pinked the evening and robin joined in.

'_This_ is how it should be.'

Legolas hummed agreement and let the warmth of the sun soothe him, the memory of the previous night's long, passionate loving had left his limbs soft and body sated and the wine in his hand was mellow. He felt himself soothed, drifted.

'In Imladris and Lórien, it is like this all the time,' Thranduil's voice went on dreamily. 'There is never danger or attack. There the Shadow does not penetrate.'

Legolas frowned slightly. He knew this of course; it was one of Galion's favourite diatribes to complain sarcastically that for all their wisdom, the 'Sit-On-Your-Arse-Wise' were only any good for sitting on their arses. But once when he was small and young he had asked Galion why the Wise were the Wise and Galion had said it was because they were not Woodelves and therefore more Wise by birth and that the folk of the Wood were more dangerous and less wise, but they had a lot more fun. Galion had gone on to explain too how being Wise meant that you became too damn clever by half and ended up fighting and killing people. Legolas mused that he was no clearer now than he had been then.

'And Orthanc?' he wondered aloud, for there dwelt Saruman, the Head of both the White Council and the Wizards' order.

Thranduil made a noise in his throat that was almost a growl. 'Orthanc is not immune to the Shadow,' he said cryptically.

Legolas frowned a little. 'I asked Thalos why Dol Guldur leaves Lórien untended,' he ventured, not expecting an answer for he had never had one before.

Thranduil seemed to ignore the question, looking down at his fingers running over the strings of the harp, tilted his head to consider the melody and his long, deep gold hair slipped over one shoulder. Legolas watched his hard-edged profile, sculpted lips, straight nose, his eyes downcast. Laersul favoured him most, he thought.

'Thalos would not tell me either,' he said wryly. 'I suppose that is wise considering I am not trusted to go anywhere or do anything but fight or hunt.' He knew it sounded petulant and was annoyed with himself for sounding like the child they thought him.

Thranduil paused then. Glancing up at Legolas, he lay his harp to one side. Still he did not answer but instead sipped wine and stared out westwards over the trees; his eyes narrowed and his face looked sharper, hawk-like. Legolas bit his tongue, chiding himself for his outburst and followed Thranduil's gaze, trying to see beyond the Woods, far, far into the West where the Hithaeglir reached and broke the back of Middle Earth into two; Rhovanion and Eriador.

'That way is Imladris,' Thranduil said eventually, almost in a dream, seeming to ignore Legolas' petulance and question in equal measure. Then he turned his deep green eyes to Legolas who could never hide anything. It always seemed to him that Thranduil reached into his heart and understood everything, knew every secret thought, every wish, every disappointment. He understood, and right now, that hurt unbearably.

'That way is Imladris,' Thranduil said again, turning his head back towards the West. 'It is the First House West of the Mountains. I fear for you if you go there as I know you wish.'

Legolas felt his heart sink. He should have known. He bowed his head. 'I will do as you wish, father.' He did not see his father's sorrowful smile that was full of pride too.

'You have nothing to prove. Legolas,' Thranduil said gently and reached out to stroke away his hair from his face. 'I have watched how you dealt with this...terrible thing. And you grieve for your friends, I know.'

Legolas lifted his eye to meet his father's. He tried not to pull his gaze away but there was such compassion he could not bear it and he dipped his head to look at his hands. He missed Anglach unbearably.

_...laughing, slapping his thighs in delight at Legolas' misfortune, pulling his hand to come and join them drinking on the riverbank...running as children and hurling themselves from the riverbank into the deep pool...Anglach's body, slumped against the tall beech where Gollum was allowed to climb, crusted in blood, hacked about by thick orcish blades, his arms cut off, his face defiled, flies crawling at the corner of his open eyes..._

Legolas blinked and swallowed the heave in his stomach. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and stared upwards where the last sunlight played on the still green leaves, aware that Thranduil watched, that he knew what Legolas struggled with, for had he not experienced that so many times himself?

He heard Thranduil shuffle a cushion towards him but he shrugged it away, not wanting comfort of any kind; he did not deserve it. At least he could rely on his father not to give any platitudes, he thought and was not bitter about that but grateful. He had long ago come of age and seen too many deaths to not understand. He twisted the cup in his hand thinking that he had not yet visited Anglach's family and he should...He wondered if his desire to take the message to Mithrandir was running away...

'It gets no easier.'

He dipped his head in agreement and pressed his lips together, heard his father swirl the wine in his cup and inhale the scent of it.

He heard Thranduil take in a long breath through his nose and out, and then the clink of the earthenware jug as he filled his cup again, and then filled Legolas', but only half way. He found himself smiling in spite of everything.

'Oropher used to say; You must let this make you burn brighter. Do not turn it inwards and let it consume you. Turn it outwards against the Enemy.' Thranduil said softly. Legolas leaned slightly towards him for Thranduil rarely spoke of Oropher though Galion was full of stories. 'It is too easy to lose yourself in the Shadow, to seek personal atonement.'

He winced. That was it. He would not be allowed to go now for he knew his quest was at least in part personal atonement even though he tried hard not to let it be. Guilt so often engulfed him.

But Thranduil seemed lost in memory, gazing into the distant West, cup hanging from his fingers and his long deep gold hair lifted in the breeze that ruffled the beech's still green leaves.

'That way lies the madness that has taken the Sons of Elrond. I do not wish that for you.' He smiled at Legolas' wriggle of discomfort. 'But it is not in your nature I think,' he said softly. 'We will fight the Shadow with every breath, every bone and every drop of blood. But we will still sing, and feast and dance under the beech trees, run in the open fields and plains and make merry. For that way the Shadow cannot defeat us. And if we are feasting beneath the hill in the caverns, the Shadow can still not defeat us.'

He turned to Legolas and there was a sparkle of joyful fury, passionate love in those long green eyes flecked with amber and gold, like a falcon. 'We will never despair. The Noldor talk of the Long Defeat. Never think of that, never believe it.'

In his heart, Legolas felt the Song then, distantly at first and then rushing towards him like an eagle's plummet, it rose and soared and rose and soared so that the notes lifted him and he felt such tremendous easing in his heart that he looked at his strong, handsome father, the King and smiled. Thranduil stared a little and then pulled Legolas' head onto his shoulder, and though he could not see, he knew that Thranduil grieved a little for the resemblance to his own long-gone wife, beloved of his heart.

Above them, the first stars appeared. Around them, first one and then another voice rose from the trees surrounding them as the Elves greeted the Star-Kindler.

As if no time had elapsed, Thranduil continued. 'I hope Mithrandir will be in Imladris. I hope he has not gone to Curunír for I do not trust him; his Song is discordant and he is proud and vain...If he is not there, you must find Aragorn instead. He is the Man who brought Gollum here and him I do trust. Alagos will go as my envoy.'

Legolas had stopped listening, focused entirely upon one word: _you. You will find Aragorn instead..._But he had also said Alagos will go as his envoy...

'Father, do you mean...? I am confused. Did you not just say that I will find Aragorn in Imladris,' he asked hesitantly, hardly daring to look at Thranduil for he knew his eyes shone with hope.

'I will say it again so you are clear. If Mithrandir is not in Imladris, you must find Aragorn and tell him. I trust him. Alagos however, is my envoy. You are going as a witness so that they understand what Gollum cost us.'

'You mean I will go to Imladris as your messenger?' he squeaked, yes, it was a squeak but later he admitted to Thalos it may even have been a squeal.

'Elbereth, no! Listen to what I have said, Legolas!' Thranduil looked at him alarmed. 'Alagos is my envoy. He is in charge. You go only as the witness,' he said insistently. 'Legolas, I love you, you are my son and a superb hunter and tracker and archer, warrior, but I would rather kiss Aulë's hairy balls than let you be my messenger or envoy.' He reached out and stroked Legolas hair to take away the sting of his outburst which was heartfelt. 'And that is _all_ you are to do. Alagos is in charge and you must do whatever he tells you; he knows the ways of these Noldor and he will make sure you come to no harm or get yourself into any trouble. Your task is to make sure that Mithrandir, or if he is not there, Aragorn, knows exactly what this has cost us. You must tell ...'

'Yes, yes. I understand,' Legolas interrupted laughing because he was so delighted to be going to Imladris that he did not mind Thranduil's shocked response.

'You remember Esgaroth,' Thranduil said, looking at Legolas meaningfully.

'It was not so bad,' Legolas said playfully. 'It ended well.'

'It ended well because _Thalos _intervened.'

Legolas knew that was true and resolved to be good. 'I promise I'll be...' he began but Thranduil held up his hand.

'Legolas. I love you. I love even your faults and they are many, as are mine. I love that you are about to make a promise you could not keep anymore than you could stop breathing. So please, just do as Alagos tells you and then you can stay true to yourself in every other way.' He pulled Legolas' head down to kiss the top of his head as he could not do to Laersul or Thalos. 'And I would not wish you to be anything but.'

0o0o0

When Legolas clattered noisily and unelvishly down from Thranduil's talan he could not wait to tell his brothers and ran along the forest path to Laersul's talan first and called up to him. Laersul did not answer and when he listened, he could hear his brother was not there. Still with Theliel, he guessed and grinned inanely. Thalos however, was striding along the river bank and greeted Legolas before he even saw him.

'So you are going to Rivendell,' he said before Legolas even had time to tell him.

'How did you know?'

'Alagos is going to Rivendell with you and is under strict orders not to let you speak or step out of his sight for the whole two days you will be there,' Thalos announced while ignoring his question.

'Two days? How do you know?' Legolas did not know why he ever bothered asking any of them any questions, for they were never answered. But he was just an archer in one of the companies so he did not think on it for too long.

Thalos pulled him down to sit upon a mossy boulder by the river. 'I am going to Erebor and Laersul is needed here.'

A small bat whizzed past and Thalos' hand shot out. He opened it slowly and within, the little bat was cradled trembling. 'Good evening little sister,' he said. Its eyes regarded Thalos beadily and it stopped trembling and instead crawled along his hand and nestled in his sleeve. He smiled down at it, stroked its fur lightly and then held up his hand. It seemed reluctant to leave but a juicy moth whirred slowly past and its hunger proved too much. It leapt into the air and was gone.

'Erebor?'

Thalos pursed his lips for a moment and watched the small flies on the river. The bat whizzed between them, swinging one way then another and turning in impossibly tight circles. 'Erebor has been visited by messengers from Sauron,' he said slowly. 'They have been told to throw in their lot with the Dark Lord or to risk obliteration. They have been promised a Ring.'

'A Ring?'

'One of the Dwarf Rings of Power.'

Legolas gasped. A Ring of Power was a blighted gift surely? But the Dwarves were a strange folk and who knew what they would give for gold and treasure. He remembered them in the Battle of the Five Armies, how they fought, how they sang, their deep voices in battle cry and his father had called them berserkers, like the strange fighters from the South he had seen in Dagorlad, and who had no fear. For the Dwarves to fall to the Enemy would mean Dale and Esgaroth would fall too, and then the Elves would be trapped between the Mountain and the Tower. He shuddered.

'They will not fall,' Thalos said confidently. 'They sent a delegation to Thranduil whilst we were away to warn him. The Enemy has not bothered with us, it seems. But we stand between Sauron and the Mountain and he cannot reach Dain except through us...or if Dain surrenders. But if the Mountain should fall, there is nothing left but us.'

Legolas felt suddenly afraid. The end seemed bitterly close and he was carrying one more message of failure. And yet...he was torn. He would have loved to go with Thalos, to go into that secret realm of Erebor, to see the great Hall now lit up with globes of light and molten jewels, to hear the strange, deep chant of the Dwarves' Song... Thalos suddenly laughed.

'Now I see you wish to go to Erebor as well. You cannot do both, little brother.' He sobered. 'The journey over the Hithaeglir is long and arduous. It is full of goblins now since they started to creep back from the Battle of Erebor. And the road that Gil-Galad took to cross the Mountains is long fallen into disrepair.' His green eyes suddenly caught Legolas and he looked uncertain. 'My heart suddenly misgives...you will not be unchanged.'

A shiver crept down Legolas' spine for his brother sometimes had these moments and he thought far off he heard a strange call and a scent just on the edge of his awareness and it reached down into him and pulled at his core.

But he said quietly, 'You are too fanciful, Thalos. The air is full of strange noises and the forest is restless. There is nothing else.'

Thalos lifted his hand and pushed a tendril of hair back from Legolas' face in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture. 'Be careful, little brother.'

Legolas tilted his head and looked at Thalos in strange mixture of bemusement, puzzled and concern. 'And you, Thalos.' He shook himself for the moment was too intense and grinned. 'Galion owes me a very nice mithril engraved knife,' he added. 'I bet him I would be sent to Imladris. He did not believe me.'

'That is why I am going to Erebor and you are going to Imladris,' Thalos nudged him cheerfully. 'Thranduil would rather you fleeced Elrond than our neighbours. And he would rather your...indiscretions remained far from home so they do not come back to haunt you, or us,' he said. 'But be warned, little brother. Elves do not go away and anything you do in Imladris is likely to have consequences.'

tbc

Note: Gloin tells the Council of Elrond that they have received an emissary from Sauron. It seems likely that they would have at least passed this on to their closest neighbours in the Mannish and Elvish settlements. If nothing else, they would have asked Thranduil for safe passage through his Woods I think. And after the Battle of the Five Armies, although Gloin is still sore, Thranduil behaved very well to the dwarves and put Thorin's sword on his tomb.

Non-Canon Characters

Laersul - oldest son of Thranduil

Thalos- second son of Thranduil

Theliel- a maiden courting Laersul

Celdir and Anglach- two of the elves killed in the Orc raid

Nauriel - mother of Naurion

Naurion - one of the elves taken by Orcs in the raid

Miriel and Lossar - two Elves who have caught Legolas' eye


	4. Chapter 4 The Best Laid Plans

Thranduil sends Legolas to bear witness to the price paid by the Woodelves of Gollum's escape, but in Imladris Legolas will meet his destiny, Elrohir, Son of Thunder.

Warnings for later chapters: violence and slash.

Travelling times and distances estimated according to MeARA, the OrginalCompany. Walking distances calculated using  .com, estimated height and walking speed.

**Timeline for Chapter 4 and 5:**

7th October: Leave for Imladris

14th-15th: Reach the Old Ford and set off on the trail to the High Pass.

16-18th: Return to the Old Ford- although a descent, the circumstances would make travelling much slower.

19-20th: Back at the start of the High Pass

23rd: Descent into Rivendell

24th: Arrives in Rivendell

25th: The Council of Elrond

**Chapter 4: The Best Laid Plans**

**6th October**

It was late and the stars were bright above the trees. Frost drifted in the air for it was October and the oak and beech leaves had turned gold and red in the Wood, their song deep and settled towards sleep. Legolas did not linger though for he had been called by Galion to go to the _King's _chambers. He had said it emphatically so that Legolas knew this was not his father but his King. Galion had not gone with him but settled comfortably on Legolas' own flet while Legolas himself climbed down and walked towards the stronghold. He met Laersul as he crossed the bridge and stood before the open doors of the King's palace and stronghold.

At Legolas' enquiring glance, Laersul shrugged and said, 'You have as much idea as I.'

'Is Thalos back from Dale? Perhaps that is why?' Legolas suggested and Laersul nodded briefly. Thranduil had been restless since he had gone, even telling Laersul that he, Thranduil, should have gone himself and it was not a criticism of Thalos but a measure of his disquiet.

'He returned earlier, Galion told me,' said Laersul following Legolas through the great stone doors. 'Perhaps there is news from Dale.'

The doors of the stronghold slid closed silently, smoothly and not even a crack showed when it had shut. Within, torches flared and sputtered, casting long shadows, catching the glitter of quartz and veins of minerals in the stone walls.

Laersul threw his arm over Legolas' shoulder companionably. 'Have you seen much of Miriel since the feast?' he asked. 'Or Lossar?' he added with a little more curiosity, giving his brother a sideways glance.

Legolas laughed and said without rancour, 'Probably less than you have seen of Theliel. You have been very elusive and missed several hunts.' He raised an eyebrow at the slight flush that crept over his normally unruffled older brother's cheeks. 'Are you in love, Laersul?' he asked surprised, and pleased, for he loved his older brother and would like nothing more than his happiness.

Laersul dropped his arm back to his side and looked down thoughtfully. 'I have not felt like this about anyone else, it is true,' he replied slowly. 'And I have known her all my life. It is strange to suddenly realise that the person you used to play with in the river mud, is someone you feel such...desire for,' he blurted out and Legolas laughed. 'No, I mean...it is more. I feel...' He laughed softly, almost as if he were alone. 'I suppose I mean yes.'

Legolas pulled his brother against him and squeezed him affectionately and Laersul looked at him a little shyly. 'Don't tell anyone yet, please?'

'I have to consider what is in my own best interests I am afraid,' Legolas teased, delighted. 'If _I_ know then Thalos knows, and if Thalos knows _Galion_ knows, and if Galion knows, and Thranduil does not know but _I_ know, and someone else tells him first and he knows that I know he will not be pleased.' He stepped to one side to let Laersul go through a doorway into the passage that led to the King's chambers, and then said, as if he had considered all this very carefully. 'Whereas if I tell him, he will be pleased _for_ you and pleased _with_ me. Of course, you _could_ support me in case he is going to change his mind about sending me to Imladris. He has said nothing since and I am sure he only said I could go in a weak moment,' he added gloomily.

They saw that the door to the King's chambers was slightly open and orange light sliced the darkness. Both hastened their steps as if summoned to be quick.

Laersul pulled Legolas back for a second. 'Promise you will not say and I will promise you my support.'

Legolas grinned. 'I would not say anything anyway,' he said.

Laersul smiled back. 'And I have already told him you should go' He pushed past then with a grin at Legolas' astonishment.

The draught caught at the torches as they entered and the flames flared, casting great shadows of the pillars that had been carved like trees. Thalos was already there, leaning nonchalantly against one of the pillars so he looked for a moment as he had in the Wood at the feast, thought Legolas. He gave his brother a warm smile in greeting and Thalos nodded but his face was serious and concerned. Alagos, the King's Messenger was there but also Galadhon, who had accompanied Thalos on the hunt for Gollum. He looked wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed and Laersul smiled slightly at him and nodded reassurance. But Legolas felt a flutter of anxiety, for Thranduil would not hesitate to change his mind if he thought it in the best interests of the Wood and he may well have thought better of sending Legolas. Surely the only reason for Galadhon's presence would be that he was to go with Alagos? He felt himself slump slightly. Legolas knew Galadhon well, having fought with him in the South as well as Erebor. They had hunted together and he was Thalos' friend besides; Galadhon would make a good emissary for the Wood, he told himself, and tried to be generous.

Thranduil himself was leaning over the table with the map. The firelight caught on the strong bones of his face, casting a shadow of his lashes on his cheek and stroking his golden hair. He glanced up at his two sons as they stopped before him; his enquiring gaze lingered a little longer on Laersul as if he had noticed something different. Laersul blushed like a maid and Thranduil discreetly looked away, but his eyes were soft.

Having already decided he was about to be disappointed, Legolas pulled up a stool and slumped opposite his father. He leaned his elbow on the table and sighed, resting his cheek against his hand. He waited for a moment and then reached across the map to trace the jagged line that looked like small teeth and represented the Hithaeglir. He felt sure now that he would never see those great mountains, never come to Imladris and his heart gave a strange somersault as if he had missed his chance at something beyond his comprehension, beyond his experience, like part of his soul was missing and could not be recovered.

But this was fanciful surely and he shook himself slightly; he did not have the gift that Thalos had, or their father's deep comprehension of the Wood.

Laersul came to stand next to him and leaned over to move the inkstand to one side and to fix the clasps on the edges of the had barely moved and remained deep in thought, leaning still against the carved pillar. Galadhon went to stand beside him and only then did he stir slightly.

Thranduil rose to his feet then and let his deep-green eyes rest on each one of them as if weighing his worth. Legolas lifted his eyes to his father's and half-smiled, steeling himself for disappointment, instead he felt his father's affection and love and concern envelop him.

At last Thranduil turned his attention back to the map. He was brief then, and to the point, as was his way. No one was surprised, except perhaps Galadhon. 'A message must be taken over the Mountains to Mithrandir in Imladris,' said Thranduil. 'He must know that his creature, Gollum, has escaped and disappeared into the southern range, near to Moria.'

Legolas followed the line that had been drawn from the edge of the Wood to the mountains and then dotted towards Moria. He felt a light prickle down his spine at the thought of the Black Pit, but he would never see it, he told himself. Even if he were still to take the message, to bear witness to Smeagol's escape, his journey would not take him that far South.

'I want him to know the decision to abandon the search was not taken lightly,' Thranduil continued. 'He entrusted us with this creature, and I would have him know that we have done everything.'

'I am ready to leave within the hour, my lord,' Alagos said, standing tall, his bright eyes glittering in the half-lit room. He eyed Galadhon with disdain. 'And with respect to Galadhon,' he said without any respect whatsoever, 'I have not needed a guard before.'

'No, you have not,' Thranduil replied seriously and Legolas slumped slightly further. He knew it, that look in his father's eyes had been apologetic but determined, and Legolas had been right about why Galadhon was there; he would be going as the witness, for he had tracked Gollum as far as was possible and he would be so much better.

'But the way is changed since last you travelled to Imladris, Alagos,' Thranduil said and Legolas was aware that his gaze rested briefly upon Legolas himself and he sighed, steeling himself and determined to be gracious. 'It may well be impassable now, for in the years since the Battle of Erebor goblins have been creeping back into the mountains and the Nazgul are abroad; I know not where those dreadful servants of the Shadow are, though I have my suspicions. And that is the reason you must make haste and I send others with you to ensure the message reaches him. ' Thranduil paused and glanced at Thalos so Legolas thought they must have spent more time privately discussing this. 'There are rumours too of things worse than goblins. Shepherds and the woodmen tell tales of a blood-sucking creature that leaves corpses desiccated and skeletal, their hands outstretched as if pleading.' He looked thoughtfully into the fire. 'That may be Gollum for these were the rumours when he first came out of the Mountains hunting Mr Baggins.' His face hardened then and he looked up. 'The Nine are abroad and searching. I do not want them to find any Elves. And I would warn Master Baggins too if I could.'

He turned then to Legolas and his green eyes gleamed. 'Tell them in Imladris that we still hold out in the Woodland Realm with no help,' he said with that cold hardness he sometimes had, that made even the air still. He did not take his eyes from Legolas. 'Tell them that we still fight the Shadow though they are safe for now...but that as I told the White Council many, many times before, Sauron moves. His hand is in this...if they do not already know.'

Legolas lifted his gaze to meet his father's bright fire. He felt a sudden lance of the Elvenking's own determined hope that kept him standing strong and resolute against the Shadow whatever may come, and excited pride surged through him for Thranduil smiled gently then and Legolas knew he would be going after all. From the corner of his eye he saw that Galadhon and Alagos shot each other a sharp glance.

'Legolas is going with me?' Alagos asked and Legolas tried not to be offended at the look of horror on his face.

'And Galadhon.' It was Thalos who spoke now and all eyes turned to him. 'We need to be sure that Mithrandir knows what happened and we cannot risk our messages going awry.' Legolas glanced at Laersul whose face was smooth and showed nothing, so he wondered if Laersul too had been part of the discussion.

'Legolas and I will make sure the goblins don't get you, Alagos,' said Galadhon and grinned at Legolas. Alagos bristled.

'Legolas is quite capable of guarding Alagos as well,' Thranduil agreed smoothly. 'However he is going as the witness to the Orcs raid on us and Gollum's escape. Alagos, you are the King's messenger as always. You will give the messages, letters, greetings and Legolas will tell the tale of our hardship and endurance against the Shadow.' And if Thranduil was anxious at the idea, he tried hard not to show it. 'Galadhon, you will also be able to tell them about the search for Gollum.'

He looked around at the assembled Elves and then finally let his gaze settle on the outspread map. 'It is a long and dangerous journey,' he said softly. 'You must all study the route carefully for any one of you may fall. The last time you travelled it, Alagos, you reported that Goblin Town was abandoned after the Battle of Erebor. Since the Shadow has grown once again in the Wood, goblins have crept back into the Mountains and the road is no longer safe. I would rather we did not have to make this journey at all but my heart tells me it must be done and done swiftly. May the Valar keep you safe.' He looked at Legolas then. 'And hurry back to me.'

After Alagos and Galadhon had gone and only the sons of Thranduil were left, they were quiet together and spoke in soft voices of the journey. Then quietly Thalos and Laersul withdrew, and as Legolas too rose to leave Thranduil put his hand on Legolas' arm. Thalos smiled at him sadly and Laersul paused for a moment and then leaned over and kissed the top of Legolas' head.

'Be safe, little brother.'

At that, Thalos turned as if the moment weighed upon him but it was not Legolas he stared at but Laersul, and his eyes were wide with fear.

Laersul though was unaware, and Thalos followed Laersul quickly and was reaching out to him as they stepped through the door. For a moment Legolas felt a sudden urge to run after them and pull Laersul back, as if it were the last time he would see him. He shook himself. Surely it was merely the sense of danger that affected them so? He looked at his father but he had turned away, so Legolas let the thought drift away.

There was only Thranduil now and Legolas. Legolas was about to bid his father goodnight for he did not know if there was more his father wished to say to him. Smoke spiraled thinly from the candles and Thranduil lifted his hands to his own neck and took something from it. He approached Legolas now and lifted his chin like he was still a child.

'I want you to wear this, Legolas.' He pressed something small and hard into his palm and Legolas looked down.

A thin mithril chain looped over his fingers and a tiny oak leaf pendant, beautifully wrought in gold was strung upon it. Legolas' lips parted as he looked down. It was always worn around Thranduil's neck, closest to his skin, closest to his heart.

'You know then that I am always with you. And I am always proud of you...' He swallowed as if he could not speak the next words easily. 'Your mother would be as well. She is always with you too.'

Legolas felt overwhelmed and suddenly it did not matter how old he was; he threw his arms about his father and was pulled close.

'Come back to me, Legolas. Swiftly and safe.'

0o00

**7th October**

It was before daybreak that they set off. The stars were just thinning in the sky and their breath smoked in the cold air. Legolas was nervous and excited, wanting to be off so there was no more waiting around. He had not slept much the night before, for both Thalos and Laersul had come to his flet to bid him farewell. He had still been packing and repacking his kit with nervous excitement when Galion had arrived and told him he was worse than a maid before a feast. Galion had taken over and sent Legolas off to restring his bow and load his quiver. But this was different from the usual preparations for a journey. This was exciting; no grim Tower awaited him as it would in the South. Instead he was going to Imladris, a place of legends. He imagined himself walking up the slender spiraling paths and over delicate bridges that crisscrossed waterfalls and rivers...casually bumping into Glorfindel, or the Sons of Elrond.

He laughed at himself, he was like some novice warrior or love-struck maid. But he did hope to meet those heroes and the great Elf-lords whose names were sung in ballads.

When Galion called him to tell him that Alagos and Galadhon were ready, he led his dapple-grey mare, Gwilileth the Tenth, out into the cold morning. She caught his excitement and danced and threw her head up, nostrils flaring and ears pricked. Legolas thought he must look the same and tried to settle himself as well as his horse. Alagos was already mounted and waiting serenely as if he were going for a stroll but Galadhon looked as wide-eyed and excited as Legolas. His family did not attend and nor did Legolas' for all had said their farewells and it was only the three of them...and Galion, who wished to annoy Alagos.

'Make sure Alagos does not fall off,' he said to Galadhon and Legolas as they mounted. Alagos glared at Galion.

'I have never fallen off!' he declared irritably.

'That is not what your wife says,' Galion shot back ignoring Alagos' protests.

'Come Alagos! Ignore him,' Legolas said, pushing Gwilileth between them before they came to blows. 'Galion, leave him be.' He leaned down and said to Galion, 'Please. I have to ride with him and you will antagonize him before we have even left.'

Galion's green eyes gleamed and he said, 'I warn you, Legolas, he is the most arrogant and self-important Elf I have ever met. And I have met a few! I am merely putting him in his place for you.'

'Thank you but I think I can do that myself if I need to. I have learned from a master.' He reached down and clasped Galion's shoulder. 'Look after them for me, Galion. I know it is only a few weeks but...it feels like more stretches ahead of me.'

'We will all be here waiting for you,' Galion patted his hand reassuringly. 'Just make sure you do everything you need to and bring honour upon the House of Oropher as you always do.' His smile was heartfelt and trusting and then he added, 'Don't go to any councils though, or make any treaties or negotiations and whatever you do, don't prick* Elrond.'

Legolas heard Alagos' gasp in horror at Galion's parting shot but he straightened and turned Gwilileth and rode quickly out of the courtyard. He did not look back.

0o0o0

They made good progress through the Wood and onto the plains of Rhovanion. In the far distance Legolas saw the long silver ribbon that was the River Celebrant winding its way over the meadows and marshes of the foothills of the Hithaeglir. When he saw the distant hills, Legolas asked Galadhon excitedly if those were the Hithaeglir. Galadhon smiled kindly and told him those were merely the foothills and Alagos snorted derisively.

'There, look up. You can see just in between the clouds the shoulders of the Hithaeglir,' he said and Legolas had to gasp when he saw the high jagged teeth that soared up and up and even then he could not see the peaks but just had an impression of the impossible heights. Alagos seemed satisfied with Legolas' reaction and Legolas had to admit that he viewed Alagos with a little more respect, knowing that he had crossed these mountains many times and on his own. But it didn't last long.

The King's Messenger, as he styled himself pompously, made good use of the seven days travelling through the forest and over the plains of Rhovanion to tell Galadhon and Legolas all the things they could and could not do in Imladris. And Legolas found himself thinking that rarely had Galion been so completely right about another Elf as he was about Alagos. He was so full of his own importance that he and Galadhon had to work hard not to roll their eyes or tease him by telling him they would be doing exactly the opposite of what he advised.

No wonder Oropher wanted to escape the Noldor, Legolas thought. He and Galadhon could hardly believe some of the things Alagos told them but he remembered a book in the library called "The Laws and Customs of the Elves.' It was a Noldor book and he and Anglach had sniggered and giggled over it when they were children...It hurt to think upon that now.

When Legolas told Galadhon that Alagos merely spoke of what was in the book, Galadhon could not believe it and he and Legolas had a fine time teasing Alagos with plans to upset the stuffy Noldor and seduce all their maids and men. But for Legolas it was half-hearted for he thought now of Anglach. He recalled too that Anglach had dreamed of going to Imladris and meeting Glorfindel and he resolved that he would find Glorfindel and make sure he knew at least that Anglach had existed, that he had admired Glorfindel, for what young Elf of the Wood did not? And he should know that Anglach had also lost his life defending his people, just like Glorfindel. And that the enemy was still the enemy whether a demon of shadow and flame or just plain nasty orcs. It didn't matter how great the enemy if you laid down your life to save others, Legolas mentally told an imagined Glorfindel with whom he was dreaming of strolling casually down some leafy path in Imladris... And of course the glorious legendary warrior was captivated by the strange Elf in green and brown from the Wood, thought Legolas dreamily... He planned how he might upset the Laws and Customs in the most satisfying way for all concerned...

The journey was so uneventful as to be almost dull. The company was strained and Galadhon and Alagos at times almost snarled at each other. Legolas most often was the peacemaker and stood between them at least once. At least whilst they were riding they could string out and give each other space, but once at the Old Ford they turned the horses loose to forage and run free until their return. Then began the climb into the Hithaeglir and the thin trail that wound up and up, twisting steeply between the trees and rocks, arduous and relentless.

Now that they had begun the trail into the Mountains, Alagos became quieter and more tense, and finally Galadhon ceased his relentless teasing and Alagos his relentless pomposity. Galadhon was the best tracker amongst them but Alagos knew the way and now they were forced to work together, Legolas was amused to see how well they got on in fact. The way-stones were not reliable and Alagos warned them that goblins moved them about or laid false trails to lure unwary travellers to their death.

By the end of the first day of the climb, and the first week of their journey, the moon was a thin crescent, but the moonlight was too thin for even the elves to continue their journey at night and they found a flat shelf of granite slightly above the path and a useful overhang gave a little shelter. But the night was calm and young pine saplings grew in the thin soil between the rocks.

'We will camp here,' said Alagos, but he would not let Galadhon light a fire and they only ate lembas and what Legolas foraged amongst the junipers and whortleberries. Whilst they ate, Alagos insisted again that each one of them study the map and memorize the trail. 'As the King said,' he intoned soberly and Galadhon and Legolas rolled their eyes at each other. 'You never know what might befall any or each of us. And it betides us well to prepare for all events.'

'He didn't say that,' Galadhon interrupted. 'He said, it's always a good idea for more than one of you to know the way...And anyway, it is a long time since this map was made and we all know that the land changes and paths with it. There is nothing to say this road even exists anymore.'

'I will take the first watch if you like,' Legolas intervened before it came to blows and his companions settled down, bickering quietly until they both fell asleep and Legolas was alone under the stars and the immense sky.

o0o0o

Galadhon had taken over the watch and Legolas was dreaming of leaping over bonfires, and tumbling amongst the soft maidens but the smoke from the bonfire was suddenly roaring over him and smoke filled the air, choking him. There was a shout and he awoke suddenly, hands scrabbling to find his knives, his bow but he could not move, pinned down, he thought panicked and struggling. Something must have fallen on him for there was crushing pain and the roar was not a fire but rock, boulders pounding about them and the air was full of dust and noise. He tried to shout for Galadhon but found his throat full of dust and the land was sliding and crumbling around them; he felt himself tilt and roll and slide uncontrollably, and his fingers grappled uselessly in the grit and hard rock and then suddenly his back hit something hard and all the air was knocked out him. Small stones and rubble and grit piled on top of him, crushed him, rolled over his legs and arms and shoulders and he tried to free his hands to protect his head but the rocks slid and poured and buried him...and suddenly stopped.

He shook his head and punched his arms free, thrusting away the gravel and small stones so he could breath but his lungs filled with dust. Coughing, he blinked and shook his head again. The air was white with dust and he narrowed his eyes against it and pulled himself out, slowly, easing his arms, then his torso and finally his legs, free.

'Galadhon!' he tried to cry out but dust filled his mouth and he coughed instead. He dragged himself out of the rubble and crawled over the rocks, coughing and bruised and with his eyes closed to stop the dust from getting into them. The overhang beneath which they had sheltered, had collapsed and taken the shelf with it. The pine sapling had been torn up and its thin little branches showed darkly against the white dust and rockfall. Incredibly, his bow was undamaged and his knives still safely stowed in their harness.

He heard a moan then and scrambled over the rockfall towards the sound only to find Galadhon already there and sound, and lifting rocks carefully from where Alagos lay, his legs still half buried.

'Legolas! I am so relieved to see you. I could not find you, I could not even hear your song.'

Legolas blinked; had he blacked out? He had not realised it, but he reassured Galadhon and helped him lift each rock carefully from their companion. It was hard work for his limbs felt heavy and bruised but they dared not stop for even a moment for now the mountains were silent and dark. Goblins were likely close to the path, even though they were not high up yet and had not entered the High Pass.

With two of them, it was quick work even though both were bruised, Legolas perhaps more than Galadhon. But soon they were able to lift Alagos carefully from the rubble. Thranduil had said the mountains were treacherous, thought Legolas glumly looking down at Alagos' pale, pain-filled face.

'His leg is broken,' Galadhon was squatting beside Alagos and looking at the twisted limb. 'He won't be able to walk and I cannot see us carrying him over the mountains.' Galadhon looked up the track that wound steeply upwards winding between the great crags and granite boulders. 'We will have to go back.'

'I do not see that we have a choice,' Legolas said uncertainly. But as he spoke, he felt a slight tremble in his heart and he thought of Thranduil's sudden urgency that they should get to Imladris. Until now he had not caught it, but something tugged him.

'Go on...' Alagos ground out between gritted teeth. 'Find me somewhere and go on. I will be mended by the time you return.'

Galadhon made a noise, 'You will mended by a gang of goblins and we will find a pile of bones and goblins dancing about throwing your skull around.'

Legolas winced but the image was not far from the ones in his own mind. Now looking down at Alagos face, white and clenched in pain, he found himself in an absolute dilemma. They could not leave him here, clearly; Galadhon was right. Goblins would find him quick as lightning and when they returned, they would indeed find only his bones. But the thought of trailing all the way back down the mountains, retracing their same steps back to the Wood and the King, was more than he could bear, not simply because of the failure, or the prospect of having this task taken from him, but because something compelled him onwards, drew him with urgency.

High above an eagle called, as if too urging him on. It suddenly folded its wings and plummeted downwards, only to hit a current of warm air, soaring upwards again as if wanting him to follow... He found himself caught by the gleam of its wings, golden in the sunlight.

Galadhon looked up from where he knelt beside Alagos. 'There is nothing we can use as a splint or litter,' he frowned. 'We will have to carry him, perhaps our cloaks can make a sort of sling.' He stood up then and unfastened his cloak and Legolas immediately did the same. 'The nearest place is Beorn's. It is downhill I suppose and perhaps we can make that in a few days if the going is good...although with your great lumping weight, Alagos, it may take us as long as a week.'

Alagos merely groaned, loudly although Legolas thought he was making more of it than strictly necessary. 'A week, and then another week at least for me to mend before we can return here. We will be delayed by a month or more! What will the King say?'

'The King will say that you are a great oaf for being so clumsy and not leaping out of the way when I told you,' scolded Galadhon but he sounded worried too.

Legolas looked behind him, the way they had come up the trail. Already they had travelled two full days and were a good way up into the mountains. Returning would seriously delay them.

'The King was most insistent that we reach Imladris quickly. The Nine are abroad and searching,' Alagos moaned and Legolas chewed his lip for Alagos was right. 'Mithrandir needs to know. He needs to know too of Gollum's escape or the King would never have sent you, Legolas.' Alagos pushed himself up onto one elbow and clawed at Legolas' leg.

Legolas looked down at Alagos with smothered irritation and tried discreetly to pull away.

'You must go on, Legolas. You must take the message. It is more important than me!' Alagos added dramatically.

Legolas finally succeeded in pushing him off gently but exchanged a glance with Galadhon. 'He is right,' he sighed. 'I will help you take Alagos back down the mountain. But Thranduil did charge us with delivering this and I will have to go on.'

'We have to be swift' Galadhon nodded and Legolas was surprised at how quickly he agreed that they would continue and not return to Thranduil's halls. 'There is something that urges me too,' Galadhon said. 'But I do not intend to leave you to travel on your own, Legolas. Not only Thranduil, but Thalos, and Laersul would kill me. And Galion would have me on a spit. So we will take Alagos to Beorn, or leave him somewhere where only the wolves can eat him and not goblins. He will only make them sick and then they will be angry when we return. The horses will not be far and I will come with you then.'

Legolas did not answer for his heart urged him onwards and he resented the delay they would face even with him helping Alagos back down the mountain. With Alagos injured it might take up to seven days. He unclasped his cloak and tied the corners to Galadhon's. They carefully lifted Alagos onto it and each picked up two corners.

At the end of the third full day of carrying a moaning, suffering Alagos, they were almost at the foothills of the mountains and the long river gleamed in the sunlight and Legolas suddenly realised they had not seen the sun for days until now, all the time they had been in the mountains. The air was easier and warmer, insects buzzed softly on the late Autumn sunshine and the tall grass waved in a light breeze from the south. But instead of the relief he thought he would feel, Legolas had felt a rising sense of anxiety with every step that took him down the path back and now he felt the Song...it was discordant and had been growing more so with every step. It had taken so long to retrace their steps for Alagos had truly been in pain and they had stopped often to give him respite.

Both he and Galadhon paused and found themselves looking at each other in understanding and even Alagos was quiet.

'You feel it too?' he asked, knowing that Galadhon was sensitive to the Song, had always been when they were in the South of the Wood, or when Orcs were nearby.

'Suddenly. But it has grown upon you these last two days?' Galadhon peered at Legolas strangely. 'I wonder why you have felt it more strongly.'

For that Legolas had no answer but he turned and looked back up the trail that twisted its way back up into the Mountains. 'I do not know...just that I feel...I must go on.'

Galadhon nodded and put his hand on Legolas' shoulder. 'It is a long journey before we reach Beorn even with the horses and Alagos riding...' He paused and looked at Legolas with concern. 'It is dangerous. Be careful. You know there are goblins up there and worse.'

'And you could get lost,' added Alagos for good measure. 'There are ice giants up there too and when the storms strike they come out of nowhere and there can be trolls and...'

'I will miss your cheerfulness,' interrupted Legolas. 'But how will you manage Alagos?' he asked Galadhon, who grinned above Alagos' head so he did not see.

'Badly I fear. He will get bumped and bruised and I will probably drop him on his head, not that that will matter greatly. But if I can carry him at least to the Old Ford, the horses may yet linger. Then we can go to Beorn and I will send messages to the King that because of Alagos' careless blunder, his youngest and stupidest has travelled over the mountains on his own. He will kill Alagos of course and if he catches up with me he may merely flay alive slowly and rub salt onto my bleeding sores. I, of course, will be following you as soon as I may.'

Both Alagos and Legolas protested then, Legolas because he didn't like being referred to as the youngest and certainly not the stupidest. 'How old do I have to be before that couple of hundred years stops being relevant?' he demanded.

Alagos was moaning quietly under his breath, 'He will kill me, he will kill me.'

But Galadhon ignored both of them and reached into Alagos' tunic and pulled out the map.

'You will need this,' he said unrolling it and holding it open. 'Are you sure about the way? Are you sure you cannot wait a few more days?'

'It will not be a few more days though, will it?' Legolas said grimly. 'It has taken us three days to get back here, and to return to the place where we were is another two or one perhaps with fair weather - that's four days at least even now. Another day or two to the Old Ford if we are carrying Alagos, and then we have yet to find somewhere to leave him...' He did not finish. They all knew what he had to do and none of them felt easy about it.

'I will follow you,' said Galadhon, 'when I rid myself of this burden.'

'No. It would only place you in danger when there needs to be only one of us.' Legolas suddenly found he could not bear the idea of Galadhon following him alone. It made him think of Naurion and he could not bear it if Galadhon was lost in trying to protect or help him. 'Please. Promise me you will not. By the time you get back here I hope to be in Imladris and I will return with the next train or group of travellers. There may well by Dwarves going to Erebor.' He did not relish the idea of travelling with Dwarves but if it would ease Galadhon, he would.

Galadhon ran his hands over his hair in anxiety. 'I cannot just let you go, Legolas. Thalos would never forgive me and I would not forgive myself.'

'And he would not forgive me if _you_ were lost and I would not forgive myself either. Galadhon, please. I feel...somehow it needs to be me. There is something waiting for me on the other side of the Mountains.' He met Galadhon's anxious eyes and leaned slightly towards him. 'I know you feel this is right,' he said. 'And I feel there is great need to hurry, as if I will miss something important otherwise.'

Suddenly Galadhon dropped his gaze and shifted. 'Thalos said that too,' he murmured.

Legolas went still. 'Thalos said that?'

'Yes.' Galadhon looked at him again. 'He said that it was your destiny. He told your father.'

Legolas smiled slightly. It reassured him, for surely if it were his destiny there was _someone_ looking after him and would make sure he arrived sound and with his skin whole. 'I am going,' he said more decisively. 'Tell Thalos thank you. And my father - tell him not to kill either of you. I have become used to you.' He leaned down and patted Alagos on the shoulder. 'Even you, Alagos,' he said kindly.

'Be careful, Legolas. I have become fond of you too,' said Alagos. 'But everything they say about you is true.'

Legolas snorted with laughter then. 'I did not seduce you,' he said looking down at him sideways and lifting an eyebrow slightly. 'So it is not all true.'

'No,' Alagos smiled 'It is not _all_ true. But you are a true Woodelf.' And he said it as a compliment so Legolas smiled.

'Are you two finished?' Galadhon said with mock petulance,' or shall I withdraw to give you privacy?' Then he pulled Legolas into a hug and said quietly, 'Be safe, Legolas. Thranduil will have my hide but Thalos' heart will break if anything happens to you.'

'Nothing will happen,' Legolas said with a certainty that seemed to come from outside him. He looked up at the sky for an eagle called high, high above in the cold blue sky. 'Look! The Eagles will watch over me.'

'Even better if they came and let you climb upon their back and flew you there!' Galadhon replied.

He left them resting carefully on a flat topped rise that he had scouted carefully before he left. They would take their time now and Galadhon would be able to ease Alagos down to the flat lands below. Legolas took one last look before he left.

'Don't forget,' Alagos called after him, 'Don't do anything but give the message. Don't enter into any negotiations, don't go to any council...'

Legolas did not look back but waved his hand dismissively.

'Don't seduce any Imladrian warriors,' Galadhon called merrily, 'And don't proposition the Evenstar. Or Elrond!' he called after him. 'But if Glorfindel is there, do everything you can to get him into your bed! And remember every detail to tell me when you come back...'

'Don't forget to bow to Elrond and Erestor. And demand a room worthy of your station...' Alagos was still calling to him when he took one last look and waved.

Their voices trailed away and melted into the silence of the mountains and Legolas was on his own in the Misty Mountains.

0o0o

tbc

*prick - Galion uses this as a Silvan slang. He would have used the word to imply pricking with a sharp point, to stab, and by extension to treat with scorn or insult. (Hiswelókë Sindarin Dictionary.)


	5. Chapter 5 The High Pass

**Beta: Wonderful Anarithilien. **

**Chapter 5: The High Pass**

**19th October**

Legolas left Alagos and Galadhon already bickering and quickly followed the path back up the way they had come, recognising small details, a boulder in the middle of the path, a sapling, a stream that rushed across the path, washing away the gravel and grit and leaving smooth stone beneath.

He climbed up and up, and up, winding his way between rocks and over mountain meadows full of long grass that waved, over lush green bogs and marshes that would swallow a man whole, and along grey streams that fled downwards over the grey stones as if they feared something high up in the Hithaeglir. He pulled his cloak about him, and even if he did not really feel the cold, he was glad now of its comfort; it smelt of home, and Alagos and Galadhon had insisted he take his and not leave it for a litter for Alagos.

Now and again he paused and stared up at the bleak crags that rose above him; high and jagged they were. He had not yet seen their peaks for they were always hidden by great shrouds of mist and cloud. And as if it had perceived his thought, the cloud suddenly, briefly drew aside and he saw sharp horns reaching higher than he had ever imagined, could even have dreamed. Snow gleamed on the peaks, pristine and pure as the days of Cuivënen. His breath seemed suddenly short and the mist drifted slowly back over the heights, and the mountains were hidden again. He recalled the tales Laersul had told him, that the Towers of Mist upon the borders of Eriador were even taller and more terrible in the first Age, and were reared by Melkor to hinder the riding of Oromë. He found himself believing it.

He paused for a moment and feeling a sudden sense of unease and panic, pulled the scrolled map from where he had thrust it inside his tunic when he took his leave of Galadhon and Alagos. It made him feel better just unrolling it and assuring himself that he was on the narrow path for the way-stones were intermittent.

At least he would not be there when Thranduil heard the news of Alagos' injury, he thought glumly, imagining his father's rage and disappointment, his worry.

Late, when the sun was high but cool enough that walking was not unbearable, he heard a rush of water ahead of him and thought that at least after the Summer the river would not be high. There was no river marked on the map but it was many years ago that anyone had crossed the mountains from the Wood and he supposed it could be from melt-water from the snow.

He came to it quite suddenly and stopped.

A bear stood in the river on its four legs, muzzle dripping with water from where it had lifted its head from the river and its small brown eyes regarded Legolas. Its thick fur was deep and rich brown from a Summer of fish and sunshine and it yawned showing sharp white teeth.

Then it turned, the water pouring from its long fur as it heaved itself up on its strong legs out of the river and ambled away into the brush.

He let go the breath he had not realised he had been holding and relaxed his hands on his bow. He supposed the bear was well fed and did not need to bother to chase him as its prey. He was grateful to Yavanna for that. And if that was the worst thing he met on this journey he would be glad.

After that the trail become even higher, steeper, grew harder and the air was as thin as the soil; he found himself short of breath and moved more slowly. But it was not just the thin air that caused this, he felt a malevolence in the ponderous and clinging air, that drew him back while his heart drew him onwards. The Mountains were hostile, an overwhelming presence. Steep grey cliffs towered on either side and their peaks disappeared into the mist and cloud that seemed permanently to shroud the sky. And the wind blew, whined through the passes and between the great cliffs, tore at him, pulling his long hair and cloak spitefully. But it was worse when the wind dropped, the brooding, resentful silence was oppressive and now and again, a small clatter of rocks from the cliffs above would break the absolute quiet. Each time he felt his heart pound hard in his chest, and he scrambled down scree slopes or hid between boulders and stood absolutely still in the shadows, until he was certain nothing followed him, or tracked him.

He passed a ring of blackened stones, an old campfire, and a pile of bleached bones nearby. They were not animal bones.

After that he did not sleep, not even the half-waking dreams as he walked, and only stopped briefly when it was too dark to walk. Night time was the worst, when he sat without fire or light and listened to the unearthly noises of the mountains, strange sounds in the night, echoing around the rocks and as the utter darkness closed over him he imagined how the great grey cliffs towered above him. He dared not sing, not murmur to himself just to hear a voice. There was only the wind and when that at last dropped, the awful, immense, brooding silence.

One morning as daylight crept over the Mountains, eagles cried, wheeling in the grey sky above him, and swooping above Legolas first and then soared ahead. One dropped between two great mountain peaks ahead of him and then re-emerged, wheeled and then soared between the great mountains again...Legolas squinted after the eagle, remembering the tales of Oropher's passing over the Hithaeglir and how he had been aided by the great eagles. Suddenly he felt less alone and followed in its direction.

It seemed he was right to follow for at last he reached the start of the high Northern Pass; a narrow trail threaded its way between the snowy shoulders of two great mountain peaks, their grey cliffs towered above him, immense, their tops shrouded in mist and cloud. It would take him two marches, he thought, to cross the Pass, and with luck he would be on his descent by nightfall the following day. Still too slow, he knew.

Following the narrow trail that almost disappeared in places, he had to scramble over great boulders that blocked the way or cross bare rock and scree that slid beneath his feet treacherously. Whenever even his light feet made a sound or let fall a small clatter of rocks, he felt the Mountains' attention somehow focus and that malevolence intensified, was brought to bear upon him in the resentful silence. Even the air was thin and starved and cold. Behind him in the East the sky was dark grey and tinted yellow; he could smell snow on the wind and the air was blizzard-heavy.

He opened up the map again and searched it, but he knew the trail so carefully marked had long gone, as Galadhon had said, the road disappeared beneath rockslides and melt-water, and eroded by the wind and ice that ground down rock, tore stone. And the presence of the white way-stones, he realised now, merely meant there were goblins. A bitter wind swirled amongst the rocks.

By nightfall he had climbed steeply far into the Pass, and the narrow path had become but a wide ledge and wound beneath a sheer cliff to the left and plunged away into a precipitous ravine to his right. He felt a cold softness on his hair, his face and looked up. Snow.

It began slowly but soon was falling fast, great snowflakes filled the air, swirling and falling in soft silence and he had to stop, to take shelter, such as it was, between two granite boulders. Through the night the snow fell faster and heavier and he huddled in his cloak and listened to the wind which seemed almost a voice itself, howling and whining like a great invisible beast. Even in the morning it did not cease and he could hardly make out the dark shapes of rocks ahead of him, could hardly see the path and knew he could slip all too easily into the ravine below. He pulled his cloak about him more tightly, hoping that if he could not see, no goblin could either.

The path narrowed and he wondered how Bilbo and the Dwarves had managed with ponies for he did not think any pony could have traversed this narrow ledge, skimmed with thin ice in this storm, and with snow banked up against the cliff. A boulder lay on its side across the path, had obviously fallen from the cliffs above and crashed upon the narrow path making it impassable. He looked up nervously for the cliffs were pocked with caves and holes in the cliffs above the path and he thought how easy it would be to pick him off, but for the driving snow.

It was easy for an Elf to scramble over the boulder. As he did so, he turned his head to see that behind the boulder was a low arch in the cliff face, a cave. It was dry and although he had to dip his head, it was out of the wind and snow. He peered around it carefully; it had a dry floor where he could sleep if he were fool enough. There was something not right; a lingering smell, like lightning had struck though it could not have. It reminded him of Gandalf. At the back of the cave was a crack in one of the walls like something hot had shattered it. A flint from a tinderbox lay abandoned on the floor. Slowly he stopped and picked it up. Dwarvish, he thought. It had a rune etched onto its smooth surface, T binding together the shield and oak design. He stared at it and then replaced it carefully on the floor. He stood just within the opening of the cave and did not light a fire, did not take off his cloak and shake it out, did not move to the back of the cave out of the snow. He stood just within the opening and stared out at the snow, the hairs on his neck lifted and listening intently for any sounds that came from within.

The blizzard eased slightly and he cast a look back over his shoulder at the crack in the wall. Surely it had widened since last he looked? He tilted his head to one side and listened...as if it read his intent, the blizzard outside intensified, roared through along cliff face. It seemed there was a fell voice on the air, like the Mountains themselves had given voice to their malice. Nervously, he strung his bow and drew two arrows from his quiver which he held lightly against the string. At that moment, he heard a loud crack and he looked over his shoulder; the stone had indeed cracked open and dark shapes poured and shifted within. Goblins.

Instantly he leapt out into the snow, cast a quick glance along the ledge. Deciding that at least the snow would give him cover and what choice did he have, he darted swiftly along the narrow path, digging his toes hard into the snow to give him footholds, gripping his bow in one hand and trailing the other hand along the cliff to steady himself against the furious wind. Voices like the crack of whips shouted and yelled and he turned and loosed arrows quickly into the snow and did not stop to see if they found their target.

Only when he skidded suddenly on ice and loose stones which skittered down over the rough path, bouncing over the steep edge that dropped away for hundreds and hundreds of feet, did he pause. Too fast and he would slip again, and even Elves can fall. He peered over his shoulder but all he could see was the swirling snow caught in the tearing wind. It lay thickly on his hair, his cloak and even on his eyelashes. He could not hear anything but the wind and Goblins are heavy on their feet.

Blinking he edged along the path, snow coming at him from every side until he was blind and could not see where his feet should go. He inched forwards for he could not go back, and clung to the icy rock. Before long the snow was drifting against the rock-face and even his light feet sank a little, but it formed long slopes and he began to dig his feet harder into the snow to give him footholds. The wind caught his cloak and hair and pulled at him violently so he had to stop completely at times and swayed tenuously, clinging to the snow toeholds, his fingers clutching at fissures in the rock.

It seemed he had been travelling for hours against the ferocious blizzard and he barely noticed when the narrow ledge abruptly widened and took him into a wide valley between two cols. He still clung to the cliff and only when it gradually smoothed and sloped away did he realise he had come through the High Pass and was on the other side of the Hithaeglir. It had been many miles along the ledge, but on any normal day it would have taken him no time and troubled him not at all, but the wind and snow had battled against him furiously.

As he emerged into the valley, the blizzard stopped quite suddenly and the wind dropped so all was suddenly eerily silent and snow-covered. He stopped in the cover of the rocks and peered out over the snow. The goblins may well have underground tunnels and even now be lying in wait for him; they would know he had to come out here. Caves overlooked the path and he looked up, around, stretching out his senses, listening hard. Moving quickly, silently, he skimmed lightly over the snow, leaving barely an imprint. He knew his cloak would reflect light and make him difficult to see, but he kept his bow strung and arrows in his fist.

Then in the distance behind him, he heard a ring of steel. Legolas froze, letting himself merge almost unconsciously into the landscape. He crouched between some grey granite rocks and listened...the draw of a blade from its sheath perhaps? He tilted his head to one side and listened...stilled his own heartbeat and the thump of his blood in his veins, let the sounds of the world fall away, expecting to hear the cracked, hard voices and the scattering, running feet of the mountain goblins, their dischord in the Song...Instead, a different sound, a steady rhythm of heavy feet, the beat of steadfast hearts that were jealous and proud and loyal...the echo of caverns deep and veins of gold, the rhythm of the hammer on molten steel and iron...There was the deep song of Stone, the mountains resonated just as the Wood resonated with the presence of the Elves.

Slowly he came back to awareness.

Dwarves then. Only Dwarves would make the stone sing so, he guessed, even the Hithaeglir which had no love for Dwarves or Elves, he thought. Far back, behind him on the track...lower than the track he was on, he thought. So he rose to his feet and gazed about him. The Dwarves must still be quite far behind him. He wondered if they were also making their way to Imladris...He did not think of going back to join them.

0o0o0

The descent seemed as slow as the ascent but the snow had stopped falling now and only a light coat lay on everything. The bitter wind seemed content to have seen him off the cold slopes. Ahead of him a cold, clear stream rushed downwards between junipers and whortleberries that grew in the thin hard soil; the slopes above were no longer bare rock and loose scree, but were covered with heather and tough scrubby grass dusted with snow. Lichens grew on the grey granite stones. He stooped to fill his water-skin from the stream and felt the grey pebbles smooth under his fingers and the water cold as melt-water. He sipped at it, tasting it pure on his tongue but bitingly cold and pulled out one of the last cakes of lembas. He was sick of lembas. The warriors of the Wood told tales that in Lothlorien the Lady and her maidens made the lembas for the Marchwardens. In the Wood, they said, it was made by Galion and his henchmen.

He glanced up at the grey clouds that seemed to be swelling and lying heavily across the mountains. They did not seem to be getting closer and he hoped the Hithaeglir had been content with the blizzard it had thrown at him in the days before. He wondered where the Dwarves were and looked back along the mountain trail, almost expecting to see them emerge from the narrow pass. He could no longer hear them however and he wondered if they had become lost or waylaid...and for a moment he thought he should go back.

Something yelped somewhere above him on the stony screes slopes and he turned to look. Marmots scattered and rushed to their holes and suddenly the shadows lengthened and silence fell absolutely.

He froze, fingertips prickling. He rubbed his fingers together and the cold grew, and the darkness rolled upwards from the hair of his scalp froze, his blood chilled and he stopped suddenly, eyes wide and staring.

Surely not here?

It was unmistakable to any who had grown up in the Forest or spent time patrolling the South.

Nazgûl.

He turned and fled.

Throat suddenly dry, heart racing with fear, nerves jangling and feet flying over the stony path, back up the way he had come. Suddenly he veered away from the path and flung himself over boulders and the low growing junipers and heathers, a chamois leapt alongside him for a moment and then veered away. The rocky cliff face loomed suddenly before him and he had nowhere to go but up and he could not be found exposed on the sheer cliff face. He flung himself down on the frozen ground, in the scrubby whortleberries and heather and pressed his face against the snow. He could only hear his own panting thundering heart and the cold grew, tendrils of fear creeping towards him, reaching, sniffing the air as a hound.

The world was suddenly dark and all sound ceased. He squeezed his eyes shut and drowned out all thoughts, pressed down his terror, stilled his wildly pounding heart, willed his blood to stop banging through his veins for they would smell him...smell his fear...and he suffocated his Song...

Shadows seemed to reach for him. Cold air swept up from the valley and with it, a tinge of something else. Like a smell...like the emptiness of a tomb.

Intense cold, like the air had frozen, drifted over him and that familiar, inexplicable fear drove a spike through his heart. Like a blade.

He had a fleeting sense of something...

_...a sad ghost wringing its hands over a short, squat body on the ground, a shadow beckoning, dragging the ghost towards it by the green-gold thread which it swiped away so it floated in little drifts upon the Dwarf on the ground..._

It was enough to distract him, to let the terror pass him by and the Nazgul was gone.

But he lay there, pressed into the ground, waiting for the terror to leave his limbs...

He did not move, kept his heartbeat slow and quiet, and stilled his Song.

Long he lay there silent and unmoving until he was sure they had gone.

At last, there was rustling near his face and he saw a small mouse run past his nose. He heard the Song surge softly back and the small creatures of the mountain crept back. The marmot yelped up in the rocks somewhere and another yelped back. He let himself relax slightly and shifted. Slowly he raised his head to look about him; nothing. The high valley was empty and the Nazgûl had had been no horse and no following company of goblins or orcs...He slowly rose to his feet and stood still for what felt like ages, feeling, listening, stretching out his senses...

There was a spark of fire high up on the mountainside and far back along the path. He wondered if that was the Dwarves or goblins. He hesitated. No, he was better off on his own for he did not know if they might welcome him and he would have wasted time. So he began to trot back along the path, and he stretched his senses out, cast his sharpened gaze about himself and did not stop until he had descended from the alpine meadow and ahead of him the trail fell below the tree-line and he breathed with relief that he was again amongst the trees. Their green pine fragrance filled his lungs but there was a great unease in the forested slopes and he felt afraid. It had been so short a time since the Nazgûl had passed.

Legolas glanced down over the edge of the trail and down the steep wooded slopes below. He tilted his head to one side and listened...stretched out his senses. There was nothing but the forest's unease persisted. He looked behind him again up at the thin spiral of smoke high up on the mountainside and wondered again if he should join the Dwarves. Then he scrambled down the slopes and vanished into the trees, lightly trailing his hand over the tree trunks as he passed and listened carefully to the whisper of the wind in their high branches.

Great towers of cloud gathered, swelled and billowed like immense sails. Behind him a low rumble rolled up from the valleys and over the mountains behind him.

Just as night fell, the rain came, and the storm.

Thunderclouds rolled across the sky like enormous waves crashing against each other, and emptied themselves on the western slopes of the Misty Mountains. Lightning flashed down and bolts of molten silver threaded through the sky. At first Legolas turned his head up and let the water soak his face, stream down his hair and he breathed deeply of the scent of the rain and soaked earth. But it did not stop and soon the slopes turned to mud and water puddled in grey sheets across the path, poured from the sloped bank on one side in a brown rivulet, drenched the leaves and trees and grass, soaked through his cloak, his tunic, his boots so he thought he may as well run naked. Until at last he decided to stop beneath the pines whose branches meshed and the rain leaked through rather than ran in torrents. He crouched at the trunk of the tree and ate part of the last lembas wafer with relief for he thought he must be close to Imladris. He had heard the roads of Imladris could deceive unwary travellers or those whose hearts were not true and he wondered how the road knew.

As he ate his waybread and mused, he watched the rain. It did not stop and his clothes gradually dried for they were well made for travelling. Beneath the tree was dry still and he looked up into the wide, thickly woven branches with sudden fatigue. He was far enough away from the path to be unseen and close enough to hear if the Dwarves passed by. So he climbed the tree and found the wide branches forked and interlocked into a convenient nest that could have been made for the purpose and leaned back against the trunk of the tree whose needles whispered in the rain and he heard its slow deep song as it thrust its roots into the deep earth and drank deeply.

He did not mean to sleep, but merely rest...but he awoke suddenly with his fingertips prickling and the hair on his neck and spine stiff with fear. The air was suddenly chilled and he knew it was the Nazguûl.

He caught his breath. Surely it had not returned? Surely it did not hunt him? Why did it not pursue him earlier?

It seemed that frost hung in the air and all other sounds ceased but a rush of wind came up from the valley, howling, bitter as hunger. Legolas flattened himself against the tree and clung to its branches. His hair was torn back and he felt he was being dragged into the wind that howled through the trees, but its icy blast was no part of Nature. It smelled of empty tombs...

And was gone.

Gone. Vanished into the Mountains. He found his hands trembling slightly and he clutched at them. It is only fear, he reminded himself, as he had countless times in the South of the Wood.

0o0o0

When finally he could stand to return to the earth, he had decided that he would simply run as fast as he could to get off this wretched mountain and into the valleys. The Nazgûl had been uncloaked, unhorsed, and then a horrible thought struck him. What if Imladris had been lost, overrun by Shadow? After all it was long since Thranduil had had word from Elrond... He felt a dreadful pressure in his chest. To have journeyed all this way to find that the Shadow had won this side of the Mountains...

He shook himself. Fool. You are letting your fear run away with you, he scolded himself as he had many a novice in his time. Have you forgotten all those times in the South?

So he shouldered his quiver and bow and strode up the steep ferny bank through the grey rain and back onto the narrow path where he stood looking for a moment. It was eerily still and he looked back up the path that led over the High Pass and home... It seemed the air had shifted strangely, almost a clear walled tunnel and he recognised that strange dislocation and sense of disorientation that he had experienced in the South of the Forest.

He wondered how the Dwarves had fared but he had not seen or heard them for days now- had only seen the glimpse of fire and it may not have been Dwarves. He could do nothing either to warn them or help them, so he turned and headed down the mountain road that led to the First Homely House. But his boots squelched and his tunic was so muddy as to be unrecognizable and he wondered what in all of Arda Lord Elrond and Imladris would think... and then he remembered the passing of the Nazgûl and was afraid of what he might find instead.

oo0o0o0

Quite suddenly it seemed his narrow, overgrown path, such as it was, joined another, a broader, better maintained track and he stood for a moment in the rain, looking along it. Raindrops pattered on the gravel, puddled in well worn places. The track wound in wide, easy loops down the mountains and when he looked up, he saw that the wide loops continued upwards, twisting around a col and then appeared again through a gap in the rocks, and then vanished. White way-stones marked it clearly in both directions. It was an easy track to follow.

He pulled the map from inside his tunic and held it open, shielding it from the rain and then turned it round and looked up at the peaks above him and turned it again. Ah. Mentally he kicked himself- surely this track ahead of him was the right path and he had been travelling on some goat track? When did he go wrong? At least there were was no one to witness his stupidity. Youngest and stupidest, Galadhon's word echoed and he winced. It was not true and Galadhon had said it in jest but he thought neither Laersul nor Thalos would have made such an error. Shaking his head at himself, he turned and, pulling his cloak around him, walked through the driving rain down the gravel track.

There were many small rivers and streams cascading down the mountains and through thickly forested slopes of pine. He breathed in and luxuriated in the scents and smells of the forest after the bare mountain, the green pines, the thick, slowly- rotting carpet of needles. Even the relentless rain did not dim its beauty and the road was clearer, winding down the sloping forest, with its rocks and moss-covered boulders, alongside mountain streams of cold pure water. Raindrops pattered on the surface of pools, on the gravel track, on his cloak, splattered in the growing puddles on the road.

It would be beautiful, he thought, if he were not so drenched, so bedraggled and soaked, and covered in mud and anxious that goblins or orcs or Nazgûl lurked behind every rocky outcrop or perched on every high ridge above him. His boots squelched.

A river rushed ahead of him. Its white water was cloudy with mud and clay and there were great logs jammed against the banks, swept down by winter floods.

And then he felt something...like he had walked into something different, the air changed subtly, like it did when he entered his father's own realm and he knew he had passed into Imladris. He stepped off the track then and went a little way into the trees, paused beneath the great pine trees whose meshed branches gave some shelter from the rain and with great weariness, he let his bow fall and unslung his quiver, fell onto the lush grass and leaned against a tree trunk.

Just for a moment, he told himself for suddenly he was very weary.

He did not really rest even now for the remembrance of the Nazgûl flickered and trembled on the edge of his thoughts and he wondered if Imladris was safe. So after an hour's rest where he reluctantly ate the last biscuit of lembas, cursing Galion as he did, he made his way carefully down the ever widening path until it dropped quickly between the pine trees and he could see below him a valley. It lay between the high mountains on one side and on the other, softer, greener mountains that were foothills in comparison with the high soaring peaks of the Hithaeglir. It was green and lush and full of trees and waterfalls. The road was silver in the rain and wound quickly down into a wide valley.

It was then he caught his first glimpse of The First Homely House, as it was called by some but Thranduil always had a slight wry smile when he said this, ironic and amused. It was anything but. Towers and balconies and courtyards, all delicately perched against the cliff face like froth or lace, he thought. And unfairly, he thought, sunlight gleamed on the stone, so it looked warm like late Summer.

Legolas looked down at his filthy tunic, muddy boots and breeches. He was drenched. Still. And he was sure his face was muddy. He sighed and squelched onwards, and as he descended the rain eased to a light misting rain that was just enough to keep everything green and lush and pleasant. It kept him still nicely muddy and sodden.

0o0o0

Elrond sighed. The heaviness of Vilya on his finger weighed sometimes and he felt the winds and currents of the air, the coolness of the wind, and sometimes its fury which he reined in as it rushed over Imladris. It was now, filled with water and rain and he pushed it away easily with a thought, towards the mountains, where it rained and rained and drenched the earth, soaked through the leaves of the forest and sluiced the streams...washed away the cold smell and emptiness of the Nazgûl.

Then he turned back to the Wizard, who sat with a thoughtful, faraway expression on his face as if he were listening to the sound of approaching feet but still too far to quite hear, and Gandalf smiled.

0o0o0

Next; Imladris. Legolas meets the inhabitants of Imladris and some of them are not sure what to make of a Woodelf, and some of them have got some very definite ideas! Warning for the next chapter: slash.

Elrond, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Erestor, Gandalf, various Hobbits and OCs. I have looked forward to writing the next chapters!


	6. Chapter 6 Imladris

Disclaimer: usual.

Beta: Lovely Anarithilen, who is always right!

Warnings for this chapter: slash. m/m

**Chapter 5: Imladris**

24th October (Day before the Council of Elrond)

Even over the heavy rain, Legolas could hear the sound of water growing louder the further he descended into the valley. He came over the last rise, and through the downpour he saw waterfalls amongst the pine trees, cascading into the rushing river. He thought it must be the Bruinen for it carved its way through the gorge. Everything was wet, water in the sky, the air, rushing through the valley. It did not cheer him or gladden his heart as it should. He too was wet. Soaked. Drenched. He may as well have cast himself in the river and swum the last few miles, he thought glumly.

There must have been a break in the clouds somewhere for there was a pool of sunshine on a south-facing cliff and there, like some delicate stone froth of filigree and lace with its elegant towers, spires and balconies, terraces and arches, was the House of Elrond; Imladris. The rain seemed to have been pushed away from it, and it did not seem real but floated on mists and clouds like a picture of a palace in a child's old book.

Legolas stood in the downpour, throughly soaked, his hair plastered to his head, cloak and tunic and breeches soaked through and stared at the spires and towers that soared elegantly upwards as if made of light, and there were long pennants streaming on a breeze. Balconies laced the facade of the House and graceful arches seemed draped delicately like silk rather than stone, over slender columns and elegant terraces.

With relief, he saw that the pennants that fluttered and streamed were of the star of Earendil.

Suddenly Legolas felt overwhelmed and intimidated. Surely the Elves would all be as elegant as the House, and tall and impossibly beautiful and noble? Glorfindel lived there, and Elrond Half-elven, and Arwen Undómiel, who was said to be the likeness of Luthien herself. And too, the Sons of Thunder, Elladan and Elrohir. Their deeds of errantry filled every young Woodelf's head with 'stuff and nonsense' as Belerian had said, the ancient and doughty sword-master who had no time for anyone who lived beyond the Wood.

Suddenly Legolas wished he could somehow delay his arrival. His message would be unwelcome, he thought, and he would be seen as he was, a mere Woodelf, untutored, unlettered and definitely less wise*. Had not Galion warned him of this? Had not Alagos told him of the strange ways of the Noldor? He was bound to do something to embarrass himself. Not for the first time, or the last, he wished Alagos and Galadhon were with him, or even better that Thalos or Laersul had been sent instead. He felt hot at the thought of all that might go wrong.

But it was too late to go back, or to stop now.

Through the rain, he thought he heard the rhythmic thud of heavy booted feet; an echo of Earth's song like a glimpse, or a gleam of forgotten gold...the chanting of deep voices in the cold dark of the mountains, deep below the sounds of the world, breath like the bellows of a forge.

He turned and peered through the rain but there was nothing; surely the Dwarves were still far up in the mountains? They could not possibly have caught up with him after the blizzard, or made their way so quickly along the narrow ledge? He could see nothing in this driving rain but grey fog, grey cliffs, grey mountains, rain, and higher up, snow.

He turned back towards sun-lit Imladris and trudged as Elves rarely do, and squelched as they never do, up the road where it wound suddenly steeply over the arching bridge which spanned the Bruinen that rushed, white-foamed, through the valley. The rain seemed determined to follow him for as he trudged towards Imladris itself, which had been, until now, standing in a pool of sunshine and he in a pool of water. Now the rain came and fell over Imladris, just enough to make everything shine and gleam and to keep Legolas soaked and wet.

He trudged upwards through a delicate stone archway that led to the courtyard that the light rain somehow made even more graceful and somehow sophisticated; there was a fountain that seemed even more elegant in the rain. The columns of the colonnaded porch were strong but slender enough to make you wonder how they kept the roof up, and ahead of him a great oak door beautifully carved with Elrond's sigil. The door was closed. Firmly. Even though he had been told by his father, by Alagos, by everyone that it always stood open. He tried the heavy iron handle. Turned it and pushed. Nothing. It would not budge he pushed harder and shook it a little. And could not open it. He pushed harder and grunted, but still it did not budge. He almost screamed in frustration and embarrassment and looked about, the rain plastering his hair to his skull and his breeches stuck to his skin. Surely someone was about? But the light rain seemed to have driven everyone inside.

Behind him then, he heard the steady clump of many booted feet and he turned in horror to see a group of cheerful Dwarves marching over the bridge behind him, talking and laughing and slapping each other on the backs as if congratulating each other upon their arrival and the rain seemed not to bother them in the least. They nodded cheerfully to him, and the foremost, a white-haired Dwarf with a white hood, blue cloak and an impressive gold chain around his neck, stepped in front of Legolas, and if he did not exactly shoulder him out of the way there was no doubt that this impressive Dwarf felt he was in charge. Legolas simply stepped back instinctively, but as he watched, he thought that at least he would not be alone and if the Dwarves knew some secret ,at least he could get in.

It seemed the Dwarf did indeed know something but it was hardly a secret. He reached up to the heavy iron handle set into the door that Legolas had struggled with only moments ago, turned it, as Legolas had, and pulled, as he had not.

The door swung open smoothly, momentously as if it were announcing them and it seemed to Legolas that he looked into a hall filled with light and music and merry voices. Warmth bathed the room like sunlight, and fragrance like roses stole through the air.

Suddenly the hall was full of Elves, and the Dwarves were bowing and shrugging out of their wet cloaks and the Elves were taking their packs from the Dwarves and laughing and calling out merrily to each other.

Legolas stood looking and feeling as stupid as Galadhon had told him he was, for this could never happen to Thalos or Laersul; he cursed himself inwardly in Silvan, Sindarin and the few words of Khuzdul which he had overheard his father use once and Galion, catching Legolas listening, had washed his ears out. _Pull the door,_ he muttered to himself, _pull._ Until finally his wits recovered and he stepped inside.

A younger Dwarf with a glossy chestnut beard and wiry hair thrust his cloak at Legolas with a cheery nod and a slight bow, and the next thing he knew any number of good-humoured Dwarves dumped their wet and soggy cloaks upon him and he stood there, buried in damp dwarven cloaks and hoods and feeling as Bilbo Baggins did when Thorin and Co. descended on Bag End, although Legolas did not know this at the time.

'Come along, fellow,' said an Elf in passing and pushed him towards a door. 'I have not seen you around before. You must be one of the new household Elves. Take the Dwarves' cloaks and hang them by the fire in the scullery. And then quickly, get them beer and cake. They like that best. Follow Berensul. He'll show you where everything is.'

Berensul seemed to be the Elf in front of Legolas, and before he could say anything, Legolas found himself being bundled along and down towards the kitchens. 'Quick, follow Elemé. That way,' Berensul said, pushing Legolas after a smiling Elf-maiden, presumably Elemé.

'But I have only just got here myself,' Legolas protested.

'Well never mind, make yourself useful,' Berensul said sympathetically, pushing Legolas into a passageway. 'You'll soon learn.' Berensul looked at Legolas over the top of the huge pile of soggy cloaks Legolas was still holding and smiled. He had a wide cheerful smile, long dark hair and green twinkly eyes. 'Here, dump those cloaks and take this.' Berensul seemed to conjure from nothing platters of cakes, seed-cakes in particular, and balanced the tray on top of the cloaks in Legolas' arms, where the plates wobbled precariously. 'Take these up to the Hall of Fire. That's where the wet visitors will be. There's a Man there as well, just come in. Almost drowned by the look of him. Why are you still holding those cloaks? Don't you want to put them down somewhere? Here, put them down here.' He waved towards a small scullery just off the kitchen and then peered at him curiously and said, 'You look pretty damp yourself. Don't you want to get into some dry clothes? Never mind,' he said, not waiting for Legolas' answer but turning Legolas around by his elbow and pointing him towards the kitchen door. 'I'll sort you out in a moment but be a good fellow, dump the cloaks and just take these up to the Hall of Fire like I said.'

Legolas opened his mouth but found he really did not know what to say except, 'I have just arrived...with the Dwarves. I have come from over the Mountains too and I do not know where the Hall of Fire is.'

Berensul stared at him for a moment. 'You came with them? How strange! Are you their servant then? I wondered why you had their cloaks!' He laughed loudly, slapped his own thigh and looked up at Legolas with delight and merriment. 'Well I'm blessed! Here you are a visitor, a servant of the Dwarves, and I am ordering you about thinking you are our new scullery boy! You will want to take them their ale. In here.' He gently pushed Legolas towards a small scullery.

Legolas opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He was actually speechless. Which was worse? To be mistaken for a servant of the Dwarves or thought the new scullery boy? He decided it was far worse to be a servant of the Dwarves.

'I am not the Dwarves' servant!' he said in outrage and Berensul stared at him. 'I only _arrived_ at the same time as they did. I happened to be standing there when they gave me all their cloaks! I have come from the Woodland Realm.'

'The Woodland Realm...um...' Berensul stared at him for a moment blankly and then understanding dawned on his face. 'Aaaaah... You mean Mirkwood! Well why didn't you say so!'

Legolas opened his mouth to protest further but Berensul had already grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him into a huge kitchen with no fewer than three fireplaces. It was filled with Elves bustling about and calling to each other, some whistling, some singing. It seemed a merry place. Much like the kitchen at home, although much bigger, and more elegant, he thought, feeling out of place and a bit intimidated.

'We have a visitor from Mirkwood!' Berensul bellowed over the noise, and there was a moment of startled silence and faces turned towards him in astonishment and curiosity. Then the Elves smiled and nodded, and resumed their work and Berensul laughed and drew Legolas to one side.

'Well, they have all had a good look at you now. You'll be swamped with questions in a moment. But first they must look after the Dwarves and we must look after you.' He swept his merry green eyes quickly over Legolas, who realised he was standing now in a small puddle. Berensul laughed again as he saw Legolas' chagrin.

'Sit down there and get out of those wet clothes. I'll get someone else to take these up.' Berensul looked at him again and laughed some more. He had a generous, open face and Legolas found himself liking him and smiling himself at the ridiculousness of it. 'And there was I dumping cakes on top of all those wet cloaks and telling you to look sharpish! You'll be telling me next you are a messenger from Thranduil!'

Legolas bit his lip and did not dare say more but Berensul saw and stared at him aghast. 'Oh my lord Manwë! Of course you are. Look, here is his sigil!' He pointed to the oak leaves embroidered on Legolas' cuff. 'I do apologise, emissary.' His green eyes twinkled and Legolas shook his head and laughed along with him.

'No emissary indeed! Just with messages from my lord Thranduil,' he said. And after all, was he not just a messenger? He felt a smile tug the corners of his mouth. 'I am Legolas,' he added with a wry smile. Anyone from the Woods would recognise his familiar name but oh, no one here would know. 'Um. Is Mithrandir here?' he thought he had better ask, but Berensul had already stacked up trays of seed-cakes and balanced another platter with cheese and a ham. There were other Elves too, looking curiously at Legolas but smiling and nodding,and gathering up vittles for the Dwarves and holding great tankards in their strong hands, three or four at a time.

'He has been with my Lord Elrond, but he may have ridden out with Glorfindel or maybe into the Wilds with Elrohir and Elladan. I will find out for you. Stay here and get out of those wet clothes. I will find something dry for you.'

Suddenly the Elves emptied out of the kitchen, each carrying either tankards of ale or piles of plates loaded with cakes and cheese and bread. Legolas was alone in the kitchens and sitting on a stool. He felt overwhelmed; names from history, from legends, were bandied about as if they were normal everyday folk, not the stuff of tales, and suddenly Legolas did not want to meet any of them. At least, not like this. Not drenched and like a half drowned rat and with such news. He let his shoulders slump.

But then he caught sight of the embroidered oak leaves on his sleeve again. His father would be really disappointed if he saw him so despondent. And his brothers. He was here to bear witness to the price paid by the Woodelves, to Naurion and Anglach and Celdir.

So he squelched into the scullery that Berensul had shown him earlier and gave a sigh and then stood and lifted first one foot, then the other to tug off his soggy boots, and held them over the drain. Water dripped out.

He lay his cloak over a chair that stood nearby and unbuckled his belt, lying it next to his cloak. He stripped off his sodden tunic and looked about the scullery to see what was obviously some sort of clothesline for linen so he slung his tunic over it and watched the water drip slowly onto the floor and into a runnel in the middle of the floor clearly to collect drips. He stripped off his shirt too so he stood half-naked, but stopped at his breeches. They were soaked too but this was, after all, a kitchen, and the thin leather was slick against his skin and he would have to peel them off. He glanced around but there were no dry cloaks or blankets or anything he could cover himself with.

He grappled around his pack and pulled out one soaking wet item after another and slung them over the line strung along the length of the scullery until he had nothing left in his light pack and then he began to wick the water from his breeches, by sliding his hands down his thighs, then bending over and sliding his hands down his calves and wicking off the water from the leather that clung tightly, uncomfortably to his legs, skin-tight. He was aware too that his hair was wet and wrung it out so water pooled around him and ran down the runnel.

It was a while before he realised he was not alone.

He looked up to see an Elf, broad-shouldered, well muscled, older and much heavier than he. Long black hair was pulled back in a severe and businesslike horsetail. Dressed in a simple tunic and hose, he was watching with a smile on his lips of wry amusement.

Legolas bristled but before he could speak, the other Elf held up his hand in peace and spoke.

'I mean no harm.' His voice was rich, mellow, but above all, kindly. 'I am merely amused that you have chosen to strip off and use the wine cellar for a linen press.'

Legolas' mouth formed a round O and he looked about, mentally smacking himself on the forehead for a fool. Around him were shelves of dusty bottles and the runnel of course was for dregs and spills. The clothesline was...well, he did not know what that was for. But it was a cellar. And now he remembered that Berensul had shoved him in here when he was getting the ale for the Dwarves. Great oaken casks and barrels lay on their sides. The Dwarves' cloaks were nowhere in sight.

'I thought it was a scullery. I am sorry.' He sighed and hung his head and then started reaching up to drag his horrible wet clothes off the line. As he pulled them towards him, they slapped against his bare, wet skin.

'No,' the Elf and reached out his hand and stopped Legolas. 'Leave them. No one will mind, I am sure,' he said and laughed. He had a rich laugh. It rolled around his mouth like the fine wine had had clearly come to fetch, for he held an elegant wine jug in one hand. 'Is Berensul elsewhere?' He did not take his hand from Legolas' arm and the warmth seemed to suffuse his skin and muscle and flesh and spread down his arm and into his body.

'He has gone to look after the Dwarves.' Legolas felt awkward and looked down at his wet naked chest. The yarë-carmé* gleamed and swirled on his half-naked body in the firelight and his wet leather breeches were tight as his own skin. He felt suddenly self-conscious and wanted to pull his cloak around him but it would surely be discourteous, implying he wanted to hide from the Elf...which he did, but he did not want to be rude either.

It was only then that the Elf took his hand away and when he did, Legolas shivered.

'Here, you are cold surely?' The Elf disappeared into another small room off the kitchen for a moment and then reappeared with a woolen tunic. It looked very fine. Legolas looked at it doubtfully. 'The owner will not mind, I am certain. He is away from home for the moment,' said the Elf again and his warm eyes came to rest on Legolas, drifting down to his naked chest and torso and one eyebrow raised.

Legolas felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled the tunic over his head. It was warm and soft, the finest wool certainly, and it was edged with the star of Earendil, Elrond's sigil. He looked up. 'Thank you,' he said and looked down at the small puddle about his bare feet. 'I am not making a very good impression,' he added sadly.

The other Elf said nothing for a moment, and Legolas looked up to meet warmth in the grey eyes. 'I would not say that at all,' he smiled and Legolas felt like a balm had been poured over him, a peace that crept over his limbs, and he felt suddenly weary but safe.

'Here,' the Elf tossed him a pair of dark blue hose, not breeches. 'These will be warmer than the leather you wear. Though not as well fitting,' he commented, turning away as Legolas bent to peel away the leather breeches that really did feel and look now, like a second skin. Only now did he realise how he must have looked to the Elf...the wet leather breeches clinging like a second skin, the wild painting over his bare chest and his long hair plastered down his back, over his shoulders. His naked feet. A wild Woodelf indeed, he grimaced uncomfortably.

As if the Elf realised how he was feeling , he smiled and bowed slightly. 'Please forgive me. I was here to collect some wine for the high table. I will leave you to make yourself more comfortable.'

'Thank you, my lord,' he felt compelled to add, for the man was lordly and kind, and old, his ancient wisdom shone. And his grey eyes were full of a sadness that Legolas had seen often in the forest...a loss borne deeply in his heart, and Legolas, because he was a kind and generous soul, leaned slightly towards him and listened to his Song to give him comfort. A low humming rose in the back of his throat and he half closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the wind, the air swirling around the world, rushing between Sea and Stars, the metallic chime of the stars more intense, brighter, and merged with the sorrowful cry of a lonely bird Legolas had never heard before, and it stirred something deep in his breast...

...There was the sound of horses galloping, a banner snapping in the wind...And something else, a great power...blue, swirling power that leapt up to meet Legolas' own song. And he felt suddenly overwhelmed, like he had been snatched up by the wind, and he staggered back a step. His lips parted and he raised his eyes to look into the lord's face, which was also startled and concerned. He took a step back as if Legolas made him feel...not fear, but something else. He caught up a bottle without looking at it and sketched another bow and turned and hurried out.

Legolas was left standing there, feeling as if he had done something wrong. He cursed himself roundly. Perhaps it was an intrusion for the Noldor, although the Elf had not been wholly Noldor. Too late now, he thought, looking to where the Elf had strode away.

Legolas pulled his clothes off the slender line that crossed the wine cellar and stood looking hopelessly for a moment.

It was then that Berensul returned, with the other maids and manservants. They were laughing and Berensul was doing an impression of a Dwarf, tucking his chin against his chest and booming.

'Here! Legolas?' Berensul pulled Legolas out into the warmth of the kitchen. 'This is the one I told you of,' he called to the others. 'He has crossed the Mountains on an errand for Thranduil and I dumped the Dwarves' wet cloaks on him and sent him off to get seed-cakes!' There was much merriment and then Berensul fingered the tunic he wore. He screwed up his face a moment.

'That is not one I would have chosen for you. It is the Lord Elrohir's. Don't let him catch you wearing it- he _will _mind!' Berensul snagged another from the warming cupboard where the Dwarves' cloaks had been hung. Inside, the laundry hung on wooden racks and hooks and lines and the dry laundry was carefully folded and in huge baskets. Everything smelled clean and warm. Berensul took Legolas' wet clothes from him and dumped them in a basket. 'Elemé, will you see to Legolas' wet clothes?' A girl giggled and blushed and Legolas smiled at her so she giggled and blushed even more. She was pretty, he decided.

'Put this on, it is not so fine. What taste you have!'

'A man, a lord, came in. He gave it to me, said the owner would not mind.' Legolas stripped off the tunic that was Elrohir's and, aware of the small gasps and giggles behind him, quickly pulled the new tunic over his head.

'The hose you can keep. I know not whose they are,' Berensul said carelessly and then frowned. 'Who did he say he was?'

'He did not, but he came for wine.'

'Ah, that will likely be Lord Erestor. Tall, dark, a bit forbidding?'

'A little,' said Legolas, thinking the man had not been forbidding but very, very sad. He did not feel it would be right to tell Berensul though. 'He said the owner would not mind.'

'Definitely Erestor. He thinks Elrohir too proud and away from home too often. He thinks it grieves our Lord, which it does. But that will make no difference.' Berensul stopped and sighed and Legolas felt there was something he was expected to know but he did not. He thrust a tunic at Legolas that was like his own, brown with the small stars of the House embroidered on the collar but very homely.

'Here,' Berensul threw a towel at Legolas. 'Dry yourself off a bit more and come and eat something. We are having our supper before the main House sits, so make the most of it. You will be fit to present yourself to Erestor then for your message.'

'My message is for Mithrandir, not Erestor,' said Legolas unhappily. He did not want anyone else to know of the news, that the creature Smeagol had slipped away while the guards had been attacked, slaughtered, slain, captured. He looked down, remembering the horror of that brief battle...and suddenly felt unbearably weary.

Berensul caught his elbow as he wobbled and gently sat him down on a bench.

'Eat, then sleep. You are exhausted. I will let Erestor know and you can present yourself to him tomorrow.'

One of the maids pushed past and said something quietly to Berensul and he snapped back a quick remark that left her laughing. He drew Legolas to a bench at a long table and suddenly all the kitchen servants were sitting around him and chattering and talking and helping themselves to the food put carelessly on the table.

'We have some hours before I am needed,' Berensul told Legolas. 'And I intend to find you a chamber and then see where Mithrandir is so you can give him your message.'

'That will be a relief,' Legolas said. He took rolls of hot bread when Berensul offered and a chunk of cheese and yellow butter, slices of the ham and piled his plate, so glad it was proper food and not lembas. He was starving.

The maids watched him laughing.

'Did they not feed you in Mirkwood?' one girl asked lightly and Legolas forgave her her rudeness because it was not intended and she was the pretty girl who had blushed at him earlier.

'I am hungry,' he said smiling and then said gently, 'And it is not Mirkwood. It is very beautiful though there is much that is overrun with Shadow.'

The little gathering became quieter then and there were some uncomfortable glances.

'It comes closer, does it not?' a serious girl asked. 'Lord Elrond has spent all his time with the Hobbit...'

'And the Lords are out hunting for signs...'

'Glorfindel has ridden out again...'

'And Lords Elrohir and Elladan have gone down river...and Estel...'

Legolas was very hungry but he tried to listen attentively so he could take information back to his father, but one of the other maids who had not yet spoken and was sitting next to him had let her hand drop, as if by accident, onto his thigh and he liked the warmth of it there. He swallowed his food and wiped his mouth, then turned his face towards her and gave her a blazing smile that left her open-mouthed and bedazzled.

'Legolas is it?' a large Elf with his hair severely tied back and the look of someone who is king of his own world called his attention. Legolas thought he must be the cook. 'Tell us the news from Mirkwood. Has the King Under the Mountain really a river of gold?' He thought too that the look the Elf gave the girl was enough to send her attention scurrying back to her food, and Legolas turned regretfully to the cook and bowed slightly, for it was always politic to give obedience to Kings, he knew, wherever they may be, and whatever their kingdom.

Even so. 'We do not call it Mirkwood, master,' he said but smiled so as not to earn the wrath of this Elf. 'But news? Well, the towns of Dale and Esgaroth are restored and the Dwarves of the Mountain have some trade with us. Dain is, we think, a good King and the river flows, but not with gold I think.'

It was easier then, and there was no more mention of darkness or shadow and that suited Legolas too, for he had not forgotten the touch of the Nazgûl upon the mountains and he wanted to tell Mithrandir all sorts of things in the morning. If not, he would have to tell this Erestor or demand to speak to Elrond himself. He sighed. He did not look forward to any of this.

There was good hot bread and cold beef, and all sorts of good wholesome food. And the kitchen was filled with other smells of delicacies and cooking for the nobles and their families. Legolas knew he should declare himself. He would do so tomorrow if need be, he thought, but he much preferred the warm friendliness of the kitchen over the cool reception he would get from the Noldor. All would want to know why he was here, why he was on his own, what was the message, and so on. And he preferred they did not know his shame. It would be bad enough to have to tell Mithrandir, let alone anyone else.

o0o0o

Berensul showed him a chamber high up beneath the eaves of the house where the servants and messengers slept when they visited. Legolas did not mind; it was better than a barracks and like everything in Imladris, it was elegant and had a bed in it as well as a wash stand and a chest of drawers. Berensul lingered in the doorway, lounged against the doorpost as Legolas looked about. 'Elemé likes you,' he told Legolas.

Legolas turned and smiling said, 'She is very pretty. Does she not have a suitor?'

'Yes. He is a guard, out with the Lords Elrohir and Elladan.'

Legolas shrugged, trying not to appear too impressed that the guard was riding with the Sons of Thunder, but he was disappointed that the maid had a suitor. 'Never mind. I am only here one maybe two nights.' He leaned his bow carefully against the wall and his knives beside them. 'Once I have told Mithrandir my message I must leave.'

'Surely not straight away?' Legolas turned at the disappointment in Berensul's voice and saw that the Elf had pushed himself away from the post and had taken a step towards him. 'You have not seen anything of Imladris yet...' Berensul said, standing closer. 'There is the Hall of Fire, and the gardens are very lovely. The shards of Narsil are here too. Surely it is worth delaying one or two more days? There will be parties leaving soon over the mountains. Would you not rather travel with others?'

Legolas admitted he would and let himself drop and stretch out on the bed. It was soft but not grand, fit for a messenger rather than one of the great lords who might visit.

'I suppose I could stay a day or two,' he smiled up at Berensul who was coming towards him now. 'But I will have to return then,' he added more soberly, looking round the room.

'I have heard there is to be a scouting party going over the Mountains in a couple of days. You could join them,' Berensul said lightly, sitting on the bed next to Legolas and looking down.

'That would be a great relief,' Legolas admitted. His hands were behind his head and his long body stretched out. There was warmth on his thigh where Berensul sat close and he looked up, held Berensul's green eyes with his own. He shifted slightly to make room for Berensul.

There was a moment and then Berensul threw himself down next to Legolas and mirrored his position, long lean body stretched out, hands behind his head. Legolas was very tired and wanted nothing more than sleep...but tomorrow would be different and once he had delivered his message, he would give himself two days of rest and then return perhaps with one of these scouting parties of which Berensul had spoken.

'There is hot water in that jug on the stand,' Berensul turned his head slightly and looked at Legolas. 'I would use it before it gets cold.'

'Am I that bad?' he asked, chagrinned. 'I have been travelling for weeks so I should not be surprised. And usually I am amongst other warriors and we do not care if we smell like orcs!'

'It is not the worst thing I have ever smelled,' Berensul responded lightly. 'There are baths if you prefer. You could even sneak into the family's bathing chambers.'

Legolas laughed softly. 'Surely not!'

'They will not know. The Lords Elrohir and Elladan are away. Arwen has her own quarters and anyway, is with her betrothed and my Lord Elrond will be welcoming the Dwarves this evening, as will Glorfindel and Erestor so there is no question of your being disturbed.'

'That does sound very appealing,' Legolas yawned suddenly and Berensul nudged him. 'But I do not think I should impose on my hosts. Am I so smelly that it can it not wait until morning? I can always stand outside in the rain again,' he added, smiling and yawning.

Berensul laughed and thumped him lightly. 'It certainly cannot wait and that is no solution! It will attract even more attention!' he said. 'You'll have everyone staring.'

Legolas grimaced. 'I suppose you are right,' he said sighing.'They will have enough to mock me for soon enough,' he added miserably thinking of the messages he was to deliver.

'Mock you? I do not think they would mock you,' Berensul raised an eyebrow. He sighed and pushed himself up on his elbow, looking down at Legolas. 'You are a stranger come from Mirkwood, and they will be intrigued, curious. And you are certainly no messenger. You do not look like a messenger and you do not have the build of a servant but that of a warrior. You just walk wrong, like you should be running through a forest hunting goblins.'

Legolas thought about this, and found himself a little flattered, but also a little embarrassed at being seen in this way.

Berensul pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the washstand where there was a jug of hot water and soap and towels. 'You can stay here if you wish. There is hot water here for the pipes do not reach as far as these rooms although we can use the shared baths of course. But the Dwarves may be using them and have probably used most of the hot water so it may not be enough.'

'I will stay here and use this,' Legolas decided, 'I would definitely never want to share bath water with a Dwarf!' he declared and Berensul laughed and agreed.

'Although they are very clean. They always want oils for their beards and hair, and they like scented soaps and they are very fussy about the softness of the towels,' Berensul complained, fussing himself over the soap and towels that someone had kindly put out for Legolas' use. 'I have to go and help in the kitchen but I will come back later if you wish?' he said with a quick glance towards Legolas.

Legolas rolled to his feet and went over to the washstand, tugging his borrowed tunic over his head as he did. He dropped it on the floor and Berensul laughed.

'You see? Definitely a warrior.' But his eyes lingered on the yarë-carmé and Legolas thought perhaps others would have stared too. He found he did not mind Berensul staring.

'I have to go,' Berensul said quite suddenly and he pulled open the door. Then he turned and paused and said, looking at Legolas again, 'Shall I come back later?'

Legolas was already pouring hot water into the china bowl provided. It would do. 'Of course, if I am still awake.' But he felt the tiredness of his limbs and the need for rest, but he had been on his own in the mountains for so long so he added, knowing it would sound ridiculous, 'Will you come and wake me even if I sleep?' He sniffed the soap gingerly. It had a strange scent, musky.

Berensul flashed him a bright smile and Legolas looked at him and stayed looking even after the door had closed. He thought of Alagos' warnings about Imladris, and their Laws and wondered if Alagos and the book had quite got everything right. He was lonely after all that time in the mountains and when he slipped into dreams, it was not the mountains he thought of, but long dark hair and merry green eyes.

0o0o0

True to his word, Berensul did wake Legolas, with a bottle of wine on one hand and a cheeky grin on his face. 'You have set them all astir,' he said as Legolas blinked himself awake and rubbed his face. 'The maids are all hoping you will stay for a week and you are the talk of the kitchen.' He plonked himself on the bed and looked down at Legolas. Legolas slowly remembered where he was, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking and pushing his long hair out of his eyes, away from his face.

'Are you going to stay there all night or are you coming down to the Hall of Fire?' Berensul asked. The blanket had been shucked down over Legolas' naked abdomen by Berensul sitting on the bed, and he was aware that Berensul stole a sly glance. 'There are Hobbits and Dwarves and a Man from Gondor. He traveled all the way on his own. Imagine.'

Legolas covered his mouth as he yawned and then stretched, put his hands under his head and leaned back. He had left his borrowed tunic and hose on the chair and saw Berensul's eyes dart towards them. He did not think it would matter to Berensul and if he did, well, he would just have to close his eyes.

'I just hope Aragorn does not start singing the Lay of Luthien,' Berensul was saying but he was staring at the painted swirls and geometric patterns on Legolas' skin. 'It really upsets everyone.'

Legolas' good feeling vanished. Aragorn. That was the Man who had brought Gollum to the Wood. He felt a little pit of misery open up in his belly. He was not sure if it was worse to be telling Mithrandir that Gollum had escaped, or telling Aragorn, who had fought Gollum all the way to the Wood and been so relieved to be rid of him. So there would be no escape. 'Is Aragorn in the Hall of Fire?' he asked, thinking that Aragorn would want to know what had brought Legolas to Imladris, and he would have to tell the Man the news of Gollum's escape. He thought Aragorn might be a harder judge than Mithrandir,and strangely, for he had spent little time with Aragorn, he wanted the Man to think well of him. Now the idea of the Man's disapproval, his disappointment, made a little patter of anxiety start up in his belly. He rubbed his hand over his eyes.

'Yes, he has been here since he brought the Hobbits here. Oh, and I have found Mithrandir. I know you were anxious to see him. He seems to know the Dwarves very well.'

Legolas sighed. It just got worse and worse. He certainly did not wish to tell his terrible news in front of Dwarves and Hobbits, although he would have liked to have spoken with any Hobbits. It would have to wait until the morning, he decided, when he could see Mithrandir on his own. His news would get around soon enough he was sure and then he would have to stand his ground and do as his father required; to bear witness to the price they had paid. And he needed to be strong for that.

'He is in the Hall of Fire too I think.' Berensul leaned back on the bed alongside Legolas, rested his head on his arm like Legolas did. He glanced at Legolas with concern. 'If it will ease you, let us find him now. Glorfindel was there too, and Elrohir. He returned this evening.'

It got worse and worse. Now it was not only giving the news of the failure to keep Gollum, but to give it now in front of Dwarves, Aragorn, AND these great legends. How they would despise him. Not for the first time, or the last, he wished he might somehow avoid all this.

He rolled onto his belly and propped himself up on his elbows, worried. 'I think it can wait,' he said pensively.

Berensul laughed gently. 'You get used to it. Glorfindel is the hardest one to treat. He is glorious.' He sighed and Legolas gave an anxious little smile back. 'Now. Are we drinking that wine or is it mere decoration?' Berensul held up the bottle in invitation. 'We will have to drink it from the bottle,' Berensul swung his legs back to the ground and sat up. He produced a thin knife which he wedged beneath the wax seal on the top of the bottle and lifted it. Then he wiped it round with a cloth he had tucked into his belt.

Legolas had only half a mind on what Berensul did. He did not want to give news that would disappoint Mithrandir, but he wanted them to understand too the cost, as his father bid, and he suddenly wondered if he had the words to convey the truth, the flight through the forest after the Orcs, the screaming as they tormented Nauriel, Anglach's eyes as they glazed in slow death...

Berensul nudged his arm and he suddenly became aware that his companion was talking, was looking at him. 'Of course you Woodelves drink from the barrel so this will be positively sophisticated.' Berensul grinned and his green eyes twinkled. He tucked the cloth into his belt, and the knife into his boot, and held the bottle in one hand, took a swig from it.

Legolas glanced up at Berensul, tried to smile. 'A barrel? That's better than usual,' he responded, knowing it was weak, struggling to push away the dark thoughts. He felt a warmth at his side and glanced down. Berensul's free hand was close, not quite touching.

There was a moment of silence, each intensely aware of the other's heat.

Berensul glanced down at his hand, where it was so close to Legolas. Then he looked up again.'Is it true too, that you lie with both men and maids?' he asked slowly his eyes on Legolas' face, his mouth.

'Do you mean _me_, or Woodelves generally?' Legolas asked surprised, and saw that Berensul's eyes gleamed and he moved his hand a little closer to Legolas, but still did not touch him. The silence stretched a little longer.

Berensul quirked an eyebrow. 'You. Both.' He took another swig from the bottle. His lips were red from the wine.

Legolas blinked and looked down for a moment; this was certainly not what he had expected, not that it was unwelcome. Indeed, the long and lonely journey had exhausted him and he wanted physical closeness, comfort now. He considered for a moment what Alagos had told him, warned him and concluded that perhaps Alagos had just not met the right Elves in Imladris. He also thought that perhaps the book he had read in Thranduil's library could simply be wrong.

So he took the bottle from Berensul, took a swig himself and let the wine soak his mouth. He nodded approvingly and gave it back to Berensul.

'Yes. Both, mostly,' he replied, keeping his eyes on Berensul's. 'But some only ever lie with their beloved,' he added in a very serious voice, and then, feigning a shock, he added. 'And some even wed and beget little Woodelves. And some bond with the trees and some with the spiders.'

Berensul gave a laugh and thumped him lightly on the shoulder. Taking a long drink from from the bottle, Berensul wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gave it back to Legolas.

Legolas drank then, and looked appreciatively at the half empty bottle now. 'Is it true that you Noldor think that you will be damned and thrown into the Void if you do not bond with any that you lie with?' he asked in return.

Berensul shifted slightly and his green eyes met Legolas'. 'Many of the Noldor still think that.' He paused. 'The Laws and Customs are that we wed and stay with that one woman and desire fades... But there are not only Noldor here.' And he tilted his head slightly then.

Legolas smiled at the gesture, understanding the acceptance, permission in that gesture. 'And you are not entirely Noldor,' he said.

Berensul met his gaze. 'My mother is from Lothlorien. My father is Noldor.'

'Ah.' Legolas nodded, then he rolled onto his back and shuffled closer to Berensul, the thin blanket wrapped around his lean hips. Berensul smiled and toed off his shoes and let them clatter to the floor. Then he propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over Legolas, looked into his eyes and Legolas felt his heart thump in his chest and smiled, tilted his head slightly. There was a moment of silence and then Berensul leaned closer, and slowly, deliberately pressed his mouth against Legolas. He tasted of wine. Then Berensul broke away slowly and kept his eyes on Legolas', and he tasted his own lips, red with wine.

Legolas smiled. 'That was nice,' he said and he took Berensul's hand then, wound his fingers into his. 'Shall we try another?' he asked and could not suppress the smile.

This time, Berensul was more demanding and when he pressed his mouth to Legolas', he forced his tongue into Legolas' mouth and let his hand stroke down Legolas' naked shoulder. The blanket tangled around Legolas' legs and he kicked it off the bed onto the floor and pressed himself against Berensul's long body.

'You must be hot in all those clothes,' Legolas murmured and plucked at the ties of Berensul's tunic. Next he sat up so he could more easily slide the tunic and shirt over the dark Elf's head and cast it to the floor. He looked at the unmarked, unblemished body before him and ran his hand over the flat chest and belly, slid his fingers beneath the waistband of his hose to the smooth skin of his engorged flesh. He slid the palm of his hand over the silky skin of Berensul's cock and cupped his balls.

Suddenly Berensul's hand stopped him. Legolas looked up into his face; he was looking at him strangely. 'Is this a bonding in Mirkwood?' he asked sounding strained.

Legolas pulled back quickly. 'No,' he said alarmed. 'Do you wish to bond?'

'No,' Berensul laughed with him, both realising the other felt the same relief.

Legolas shook his head in relief. 'Good. Not that you are not a worthy spouse but in the Wood, like here, a bond is mainly between a man and woman for children. Although there are those who bond with another man or another woman. It does not seem to matter to anyone.' Legolas turned his hand to twine his fingers with Berensul's, and lifted his head to kiss Berensul deeply. He felt a surge of lust and desire and when Berensul touched the swirls around his nipple, Legolas caught his breath for the shock of lust it always sent through him. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at Berensul.

'What are these markings?' Berensul asked.

'These are the signs of my House,' Legolas said, looking down and pointing out the oak and ash and thorn of Oropher, the green-gold that was his own. 'And this is Smaug,' he said running a finger over the swirls and geometric patterns over his shoulder.

Berensul peered at it for a moment and then his face cleared. 'Ah. I see it now.' He traced the sinuous line of the dragon as it coiled around Legolas' torso, his hips, his thigh.

'We do not have to...' Legolas began, thinking he sensed a hesitation, but Berensul shushed him and leaned in again for another kiss and this time, his hand grasped Legolas firmly. Legolas sighed and pushed against the hold, shoved his hand beneath Berensul's hose and stroked him too so the kiss deepened and their tongues met and pushed and swirled around each other.

'Have you ever...?' Legolas began but Berensul nodded impatiently and pushed Legolas down onto his back.

Legolas laughed slightly breathless. 'This is not what I expected.'

'No?' Berensul placed the palm of his hand firmly on Legolas' flat belly and moved between Legolas' thighs. Legolas looked up at him, into the lustful green eyes and reached up to slide his hands through the dark silk hair. Berensul licked his lips then and pushed his hands beneath Legolas' hips, pulled him close. Legolas felt the stiff heat nudge against his buttocks and his lips parted slightly in surprise at Berensul's confidence, his forthrightness.

'No...I did not,' Legolas said and laughed breathlessly again. 'I thought...'

'You thought there would be none of this sharing between men,' Berensul said smiling, but his eyes were half closed with desire and lust. 'But when I saw you in the wine cellar, I wanted you.' He leaned forwards and kissed Legolas deeply and when he pulled back, they stopped speaking for it was all sensation and panting, breathless desire and heat and then liquid pooling deep in Legolas' belly, he rode the waves of desire until both exploded.

tbc

* This is what the Noldor believed of the Woodelves- source, Silmarillion and Hobbit.

*yäré-carmé - the tattoos the Woodelves use- they mark each limb with an identification of their House and name. A necessity in the Wood in case they are caught by Orcs and dismembered. They also use this as rites of passage and initiation into various cults. One day I'll get round to writing the story of the dragon.

Hope you liked that little snippet. It will be a while before I update now as none of the next chapter is written but reviews really encourage me to get my act together!


	7. Chapter 7 Many Meetings

Beta: Thank you Anarithilien, who has given so much of her time to this whilst also completing her SIX YEAR opus, Dark Forest. A wonderful and rich story.

Special thanks too to Spiced Wine who, as my favourite Noldor/Silmarillion expert, has helped so generously with Erestor's back story, which is in itself a bit of a tale!

And as always, lovely reviewers who are so encouraging and keep me writing.

This is set the night before the Council of Elrond- the night Legolas arrives in Imladris, the Dwarves.

**Chapter 7: Many Meetings**

It was late by the time Erestor had completed all his duties. He had seen that all the guests were settled and in comfortable accommodation. He had been a little concerned by the number of Dwarves who had arrived, and the Man who had come all the way from Gondor, and the Hobbits. He was unsurprised of course by the appetites of the Hobbits at least, having now been host to Bilbo Baggins for some years. And he was fond of the old Hobbit and pleased that some of his kin were here whatever the reason for their flight. At least the messenger from Mirkwood had been hastily bundled into a suitable room high up in the eaves of the House by Berensul, who had then hurried to tell Erestor as he knew he should.

_What is his name?_ Erestor struggled to remember as he strode up the wide sweep of steps to Elrond's rooms, two at a time. _I know it was not Alagos who came this time. _

He did not knock, and entered without glancing even at the three occupants already seated in wide comfortable chairs placed about a blazing fire. The nights were cold even in the Valley and it was late October. He himself would have thrown the windows wide and welcomed the cold mountain air and the sound of rushing water, but not everyone was as he. Glorfindel turned his head as Erestor came in and the firelight turned his rich hair molten gold. One could not help looking at Glorfindel, thought Erestor without rancour.

Erestor strode over to the sideboard where several bottles of good wine stood open and breathing, and one remaining goblet. He poured wine, rich and red, into the goblet and lifted it in salutation. Then he shrugged his velvet robe from his shoulders and threw it over the back of the empty chair and sat in it, draping one long lean leg over the arm of the chair in an overtly sensual way and gave a thin smile. In his linen shirt, fine velvet hose, and soft suede boots he knew how he looked and enjoyed the effect hugely. He let the cup dangle from his long fingers and pulled his long hair over one shoulder as if unconsciously.

Glorfindel gave him a wry look.

'There was a messenger from Mirkwood,' he said by way of explaining his lateness. 'He arrived with the Dwarves.'

'Ah, I met him,' said Elrond. 'He was in the wine cellar, half-dressed and soaked to the skin.' He smiled benignly. 'He was hanging up his clothes and emptying his very wet boots out into the drip-channel.'

'It seems as good a use as any.' Glorfindel turned a bottle upside down and watched a few drops crawl from the lip and drip into his fine goblet. He looked surprised there was none left. Erestor passed a new bottle and watched Glorfindel fill his goblet.

Glorfindel, thought Erestor, had several startlingly capacious abilities; one was to drink fine wine, another was to slay terrifying monsters.

Glorfindel looked up and grinned at Erestor as if he could read his thoughts and said, 'You will be unsurprised to know, Erestor, that your role at the Council tomorrow is to ask the difficult questions. Make sure that Aragorn has his chance to declare himself. Most auspicious that this Boromir of Gondor has joined us. He is the son of the Steward, Denethor.' Glorfindel raised his goblet to Erestor and Erestor glanced towards Elrond. His Lord's face was impassive and his grey eyes stared into the fire. For just a moment the mask slipped and he looked so unhappy that Erestor winced.

However he simply nodded in agreement, unsurprised; it was always his role to move things along. He looked into the depths of the red wine, its was deep and rich and he tasted it on his tongue, at the back of his throat and wondered who had brought out the good stuff that he, Erestor, reserved for very special occasions. Perhaps this was one, he thought.

'So Aragorn will go with the Ring then, and Boromir. At least to Minas Tirith,' he said thoughtfully. 'And who else? Mithrandir? You, Glorfindel?'

'I will if you will,' Glorfindel's lips twitched mischievously, but Erestor did not rise to his bait.

'Mirkwood eh?' Gandalf reached towards his pipe but he did not draw it out. 'How very fortuitous that he comes at this time.'

Erestor caught Glorfindel's eye. Glorfindel stifled a smile and asked obligingly, 'I wonder why he comes now. What news do you think he brings, Mithrandir?'

'Ah, well. It depends.'

Erestor tried not to sigh for Mithrandir would play his little games, but he was curious now that Mithrandir thought a messenger from Mirkwood worthy of mention. 'Berensul is with him,' he dropped in deliberately and watched the reactions of those around him with amusement.

'Poor Berensul,' said Glorfindel laughing and Elrond looked at him.

'I do not think Berensul will find it a hardship,' Elrond said. 'It is not...um... what is his name? The usual messenger. Alagorm?'

'Alagos,' said Erestor. 'No. He is called ... ah, I have forgotten it. Begins with an L. Legolas!' he said triumphantly.

Gandalf nearly spluttered into his wine. 'Legolas? Are you sure?'

That caught all their attention. Erestor thought that he should have pressed Berensul a little harder for information. 'I am sure that is what Berensul said. Yes, Legolas.'

'And who else is with him?' Mithrandir leaned forward and his bright blue eyes were fixed on Erestor now, most disconcertingly.

'He came on his own. Well, he arrived with the Dwarves but it is not clear if he actually travelled with them.'

'Oh, I doubt very much if he travelled with them,' said Mithrandir drily. 'So he came over the Mountains on his own?' The Wizard leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Well now, this _is_ unexpected.'

Elrond turned to Mithrandir with curiosity. 'You know this Legolas, Mithrandir?'

'Oh yes,' said the wizard infuriatingly. 'And I know his business too. He has come to tell us that Gollum has escaped.'

'Oh that,' Erestor waved his hand dismissively for he also had news of that and enjoyed the irritated look on the Wizard's face. 'Yes, and it is right that Thranduil should tell us how this happened.'

'Ah, but he did not need to send his youngest son.' Mithrandir threw a glance that could only be described as smug.

Erestor could not stifle his surprise and dismay. 'Elbereth's tits,' he swore, ignoring the appalled looks from both Mithrandir and Glorfindel at such obscenity. 'We have put Thranduil's son in the domestics' quarters and I have let Berensul...' He did not finish that sentence, had enough sense to put a sock in it, as Glorfindel would say who had language at least as colourful as Erestor's when he wanted. 'Why did he not tell us who he was?' He rounded on Mithrandir as if it were his fault somehow.

'Oh,' the Wizard was now fumbling in his robes for that infernal pipe, Erestor thought. 'I expect he hopes no one will realise. He is probably worried sick about telling everyone that Gollum has escaped...He is a good boy.' The Wizard's eyes were distant for a moment as if he stared into some future and he chewed on the end of the pipe slowly. 'Perhaps I should have told Thranduil more than I did but I felt that there was still some hope left for Gollum. If they were kind to him...And Legolas is very kind.' He lifted his eyebrows and looked down.

He put his pipe between his lips, after a cursory glance around the room as if he cared that no one else smoked, and struck a flame. The flame cast an orange glow on his face for a moment and then died. 'It is no coincidence that the Peoples of Middle Earth are gathering. It is more than fortuitous.'

'It is too late to disturb him now, Erestor, and insist he moves into another room more befitting the son of Thranduil,' Glorfindel said amused no doubt by Erestor's consternation. 'If he is anything like the Woodelves I have met, he will be just as happy sleeping in a tree. And tomorrow you can move him if he wishes it. My guess is that once our assembled guests hear the news at the council, they will all want to depart as quickly as possible to give the news to their lords. And we must give our attention to finding out if the Nazgul have all departed this place or if they yet lurk in the corners and shadows outside Imladris.'

Erestor agreed with Glorfindel. The Nazgul were the greatest threat and even he shivered a little at the thought of all Nine clustered around the edges of Imladris like reaching shadows.

At that, Elrond stirred. 'We will send out riders to seek them after the council. Glorfindel, you will take one company and seek east and Erestor, take another company and seek south. My sons have returned and may have news.' He shuddered almost imperceptibly. 'It frightens me to think they may have encountered the Nine out there in the Wilds.'

Erestor found his heart faltered too at the thought and murmured a quick apology to Elbereth if only she would keep them safe.

'They are uncloaked and unhorsed, my friend,' said Mithrandir with compassion. 'But you are right, they are diminished, not powerless, not even now. And they seek the Ring...They may even have departed completely, but they will be back.'

Erestor said nothing for he did not quite trust that the Sons of Elrond were safe from the Darkness, but it was not only the Nazgul he feared; they had a darkness of their own, in the furious revenge for their mother's torment in the caves of the Orcs. Not for nothing were they known as the Sons of Thunder by the Orcs of the Mountains.

0o0o0o0o

Unaware of the consternation his arrival had caused, Legolas awoke early the next morning feeling sated and comfortable. His limbs were soft with sleep, proper sleep and sex and he felt whole, content. Even though the bed was narrow, it was reasonably soft and the sheets fine enough for him. He blinked sleepily and saw that even in this room high under the eaves the windows were tall and the rooms bright.

He reached out and found the comfortable bed empty, but there was Berensul standing beside the bed, pulling on his clothes. Berensul turned and smiled, and then sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Legolas, smiling. 'Last night was nice. Unexpected.'

Legolas looked at him still disbelievingly. 'Very,' he said. 'I never thought this would be how I spent my first night in Imladris.'

Berensul thinned his lips for a moment. 'We must be careful about last night,' he warned. 'It is true what I said, that some in Imladris would frown upon us.' He shook his head sadly. 'We must be secret.'

Legolas propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Berensul, hoping his caution was not because he was ashamed or that he wanted no more of him. Berensul's long dark hair was combed now and loosely braided, but last night he had been wanton and his long hair had poured over Legolas, his green eyes dark with lust and desire. He lifted his hand and stroked Berensul's face. 'I was hoping we might do this again,' he said.

Berensul laughed and caught his hand. 'If you wish me to come to you tonight, of course I will. But you are only here one more night perhaps and then you will be gone. I do not want you to break my heart.' He grinned brightly and Legolas thought it would take more than one night with him to break Berensul's heart. He had been a skillful lover too, knowing how to draw out the pleasure and how to seek pleasure himself. It had surprised Legolas after all he had been told of Imladris.

'I do not think that likely,' he said wryly. Berensul looked at him then and Legolas wished he had not been so blunt. 'I did not mean to make you sound cold,' he said quickly, regretfully. 'I hope we are friends beyond this. But I am no fool, I know this is only what it is and nothing more.' He kissed the palm of Berensul's hand to soften his words.

Berensul swatted him lightly and said glibly, 'Of course. And there are many maids who wish to have a share of you. I would not deprive them and who knows where that may lead!'

Legolas looked at him in surprise. 'Don't look so scandalised,' Berensul pulled Legolas to his feet. 'You are exotic and new and you cannot expect to stay in this splendid isolation!' He cast a quick, wry look around the room. 'They are already swooning over the Woodelf warrior who has barbaric paintings on his skin and will sweep them off into the trees to make wild love.'

Legolas raised his eyebrows, unable to think of himself in this way and stretched. He padded over to the wash basin and poured freezing water into the bowl. He could not help but gingerly sniff the soap again, puzzled. It was sandalwood, he thought, or something musky. Why would one put scent in soap, he thought. Wouldn't it make him smell odd? Not himself? He thought he might quite like it if he became used to it. He saw Berensul watching him out of the corner of his eye with a look of amusement on his face. So he shook his head slightly and rubbed it between his hands in the water and washed his face, his body and hoped he did not smell like a maiden.

'Does everyone use scent?' he asked, turning around and rubbing his skin with the linen cloth left for the purpose.

Berensul was fully clothed and lay stretched out on the narrow bed, hands clasped behind his head. 'Yes. We do not all want to smell of horses and sweat. Or Orcs.' He grinned appreciatively at Legolas as he leaned over and shook out his own leather breeches and pulled them on. Berensul had brought them up with him, amazingly already dry. He felt more comfortable in his own clothes and slipped his shirt on, then his moss suede tunic. It was still a little damp under the arms but that would not worry him. He carded his fingers through his hair, smoothed his hands quickly over the tight warrior braids and fastened the wide leather belt around his waist, surreptitiously checking that the hidden darts were still in place.

He reached for his twin blades and was just about to sheathe them when Berensul's eyes widened in alarm.

'Oh, you won't need those,' he said quickly. Legolas turned his head to look at him. 'I would leave all that behind if I were you. My lord insists that weapons are left at the porch with the gatekeeper.'

Legolas almost gaped at him. 'Surely not? Do you not need all your warriors armed in case there is an attack?' he asked in astonishment.

'That would never happen,' Berensul said definitely. 'It never has, never will.' He swung his feet to the floor and stood. 'Come. I must not be late or Ceredir will have my liver.' Legolas knew now this was the Cook and he was a terror in the way that Galion was not. Berensul threw open the door and looked out of the door warily. 'You must present yourself to my Lord Erestor properly. He was too busy last night to receive you.' He hesitated and then said carefully, 'You must beware of my Lord Erestor. He is very powerful and fearsome.'

Behind him, Legolas frowned as he pulled on his boots. Berensul's description did not match the man he had met and who had given him the tunic and hose. He checked that his knife was still in the sheath in his boot despite Berensul's warnings. He did not think anyone else would notice the knives and he could not walk about anywhere without a single weapon. It felt...naked. He began to buckle on his greaves but then stopped and dropped them back on the bed. They would attract attention.

'The girls say that he becomes a wolf at night,' Berensul turned back to Legolas and said mockingly. He grinned and Legolas gave an uncertain laugh. 'Do not look into his eyes.'

He led Legolas down the sweep of steps and out onto a wide terrace above the loud, rushing Bruinen. They paused and watched the pale sun rise above the mountains. The mountains looked beautiful now, a silver mist lay across them like a veil, but the snow-clad peaks rose high above and the rising sun caught on the snow.

The valley was wide and lush, and in Autumn the leaves of the many trees had turned gold and fluttered down onto the grass like showers of gold. All around them was the sound of water, the river rushed below and there were waterfalls spilling over high cliffs, foaming into deep green pools, rushing over rocks and swirling in rivulets around the lovely gardens. They left their footprints in the dew, scattered over the lawns like silver drops and stared at the glittering cobwebs looped over the roses. Legolas felt peaceful, calm like he never did in the Wood, even when resting in the boughs of the great oaks around the stronghold. He wondered why that was. He thought then that perhaps no weapon was ever needed after all.

He could stay here, he thought, and rest. Let his heart soak in the peace. He listened to the birds singing even though it was Autumn and they should be quieter.

'Come. He will be waiting.' Berensul pulled at his sleeve and Legolas turned from the sight and followed Berensul through a cloister of cool arches where water ran along a channel cut in the stone and ended in a fountain. A Man passed them. His hair was dark and he was bearded. A great fur-lined cloak was wrapped around him and upon his back was a heavy round shield and at his waist a great hunting horn. He glanced up at Legolas as he passed. His eyes were wary and guarded and Legolas felt a sudden empathy.

'Here.' Berensul rapped sharply on the door. 'Remember what I said, don't look into his eyes!' And having knocked, he turned and seemed to flee.

There was nothing, no sound from within so he steeled himself, scolded himself for the silliness of Berensul's fairy tales and he knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. He knocked again even louder and this time he heard a voice within calling him to enter, a little impatiently. He was about to open the door when it was thrown open and an Elf stood there, tall, imposing and looking very irritated. Unable to help himself, Legolas looked up into sharp eyes, hawkish, but such a light brown as to be almost amber. Legolas stared open-mouthed for it did indeed give the Elf a faintly vulpine air and he narrowed his amber eyes as though he were used to the effect he had, a predatory smile that showed his white teeth. Legolas felt for a moment like a sheep that had strayed too far. Definitely not the Elf from the wine cellar, he thought. Nothing about this Elf reassured him. His long black hair was tied back severely but not braided, it looked strangely antique, a long horsetail of black hair, cheekbones like knives. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an elegant tunic embroidered with silver thread, and fine velvet hose, fine suede boots. Legolas could well believe the tales Berensul had told him.

'Well?'

Legolas bowed slightly and said, 'My Lord Erestor?' When he lifted his eyes to the elven Lord's face he saw that the Elf watched him with a smile of wry amusement.

'I see you have heard the tales,' he said, a fine black eyebrow lifted sardonically. 'They are all true.' He stood back and gestured Legolas to enter. There were some wide shallow steps that led up from the cloister and into a wide room with an elegant and sweeping view of the Valley and its golden trees. Graceful arching windows floor to ceiling were thrown open and the cold fresh mountain air filled the room and there was the sound of water.

'You are from Mirkwood,' Erestor said as he led Legolas into the room. He carefully picked up scrolls from where they were piled up on chairs. There were books everywhere and scrolls, both unrolled and tightly sealed. 'You have crossed the mountains on your own. That in itself is a feat.' His voice was unexpectedly rich and mellow, the voice of a bard and poet, thought Legolas staring in turn and confused by the sudden fleeting impressions, but he did not dare to lean in and listen to the Song of the Elf for he thought it would be deemed far too presumptuous.

Erestor pulled out a tall-backed beech chair from an elegant desk, also of beech, where inks of different colours in glass bottles like jewels were lined up neatly. Ancient books were piled up carefully on the desk. Erestor sank into the chair and steepled his long, elegant fingers. He surveyed Legolas for a moment, just enough to unnerve him with those strange amber eyes but Legolas had learned at his father's knee how to withstand such scrutiny and bore it well, he thought.

'That rascal Berensul tells me you have messages from Thranduil,' Erestor said smoothly and Legolas flinched. Had Berensul told Erestor everything? He racked his brains for what else he might have said unguardedly and wondered if Berensul's only motive was to find things out. He hoped that was not the case but he remembered too how skillful Berensul was and how quick he was to approach him...how easily Legolas himself had fallen. He cringed. Laersul would never have given in and Thalos would have given in but said nothing. Legolas closed his mouth now, determined that at least now he would say nothing...He wondered if the one bit of information he should have given was his name. because he suddenly felt sure that Erestor would know that too.

'He tells me you are looking for Mithrandir.' The elven Lord looked carefully at Legolas as if waiting for a reply. But when there was none forthcoming, he gave a slight smile. 'I will let him know that you are here. You will have messages of course for my Lord Elrond too,' he said invitingly but Legolas was determined now and said nothing.

There was a moment where each stared at the other and Legolas felt himself flinch a little. Erestor may have noticed because he inclined his head as if acknowledging his victory and said, 'You are not Alagos.'

Well that was true, thought Legolas so he nodded. 'Alagos was injured,' he said, trying to look helpful.

'Ah, I thought as much. He would not easily give up his title of King's messenger,' Erestor said smoothly, but Legolas thought he detected an undercurrent of amusement. 'Then what is your name, child.'

Legolas blinked slowly and said as innocently as he could, 'My name is Legolas,' knowing it sounded as evasive as it was.

Erestor waited. A slight smile played about his lips and Legolas was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse, but that was too obvious...He had seen a wolf once, trotting nonchalantly after its prey, just watching, waiting for it to fall, to trip... that was how he felt now. He swallowed. Berensul was right. Erestor was a wolf. No escape now.

'Legolas Thranduillion,' he said, his mouth going a little dry, but the Elf lord's eyes face remained expressionless.

'Legolas _Thranduillion_,' he said slowly and he gave Legolas a piercing stare that reduced him to a child who has been caught stealing cakes. Legolas bit his lip. 'Ah. So not a simple messenger then, my lord.' Erestor inclined his head slightly.

'In the Wood, my lord,' said Legolas, trying to assemble some dignity, 'I am no lord. Nor do we see lineage as worthy of note. In the Wood I am simply Legolas Thranduillion, an archer.'

'Nevertheless, in the _Valley_,' said Erestor carefully, 'we do see lineage as worthy of note. _Here,_' he said emphatically, 'you are a lord. And we will treat you as one.' It was almost a threat.

Legolas lifted his chin. 'It will not be necessary and hardly worth it, my lord. I intend to deliver my message to Mithrandir and then leave. I will of course pay the Wood's respects to my Lord Elrond and then depart.'

Erestor rose slowly, majestically from the tall backed chair. It was impressive and probably well rehearsed, thought Legolas nervously, but that only made it worse. He stood looked down sternly at Legolas. 'You may _think_ that arrangement acceptable, but I assure you it is not. I will of course have the son of the _Elvenking_ moved to more suitable quarters.' He strode quickly to a second door that Legolas had not even noticed and threw it open. Legolas glimpsed another Elf sitting at a desk, head bent and a black feathered quill scratching at a parchment. He looked up at Erestor's approach, who spoke to him quickly and quietly. The Elf threw a startled glance past Erestor at Legolas and then back up to Erestor. He nodded briefly and then rose to his feet and disappeared.

'There. All done. Your belongings will be moved to more suitable quarters, in the guest and family wing of course. Ceredir and Berensul will be reprimanded.' There was a slight glint in the elven Lord's amber eyes that unnerved Legolas even more.

He shook his head in distress. 'Please my lord, that will not be necessary I assure you. The kitchen Elves have been more than hospitable and treated me very fair. They showed great kindness to a stranger, a mere messenger,' he said desperately. 'It says much that I had such a welcome in the Last Homely House.' He wondered if he would have had quite the welcome if he had declared himself.

Erestor paused then for a moment. He was still on his feet, looking down at Legolas whose fair face was turned up and beseeching. Something flickered in his amber eyes then and his face changed subtly. He licked his dry lips as if considering and then said, 'Very well. Since you speak so fair of the kitchen, I will not turn them out to fend for themselves in the Wild. This time.'

Though he spoke severely, Legolas was skilled at reading even the stoniest countenance, and he thought he detected a glint of amusement. Erestor tilted his head considering and Legolas knew it was not an invitation, or at least he hoped not because he would not have dared refuse. 'It is certainly fortuitous that _you_ are here, and that we have a representative of Mirkwood,' he said and Legolas did not dare correct the slight to the Woodland Realm. 'You must join the Council that my lord has called.'

Legolas' heart fell. A council! Thranduil would be furious, and kill him. Slowly. Alagos was probably already dead at Thranduil's hands, and that only left him. But he did not think there was any way out. He resolved to sit tight and keep his mouth firmly closed, say nothing. Nothing at all. Find Mithrandir and then scurry back to his room until another group left to cross the mountains. The Dwarves perhaps...

Erestor leaned back in his high-backed chair, looking pleased now that he had decided Legolas would be joining the Council. 'If you had been a mere messenger, it would not be proper for you to join the Council. Certainly you could not speak for Thranduil. But as his son, you are more than capable of speaking for him. Indeed, I have heard of your diplomacy and skill.'

_Melkor's balls,_ thought Legolasbut what he said, rather faintly, was, 'I think you mean my brother, Thalos. He is a skilled diplomat.' _And Elbereth knows I wish he were here now, _he added mentally.

'Ah. Then you are the warrior who led the battle with your father at Erebor?' said Erestor, looking even more impressed.

'No. That is my oldest brother, Laersul,' he said trying not to look miserable.

Erestor was, Legolas thought miserably, far too refined and intelligent to say more but he could almost hear that mellow, silky voice say _Ah, then you are the stupid one, we hear that Thranduil would rather send his horse to a council than send you. _

Instead Erestor said, almost kindly 'Then you must be his youngest. Too young yet for your reputation to reach us.' Legolas hung his head and so missed the look of pained empathy on the councillor's face. 'Come. The Council will begin soon and perhaps you will be able to give Mithrandir your message and then stay and learn what has been happening in the world beyond Mirkwood.'

Legolas bit his tongue again. This was the third time. But Erestor had been gracious enough at his small deception and he wished to be on good terms so he followed the councillor out of the room and down a smooth flight of stone steps that swept down onto yet another terrace that led to a wide lawn. Legolas had seen a lawn before but it seemed so odd a thing, to keep the grass so short that nothing could live in it or grow but the grass itself. He wondered if Elrond kept his horses on it but there was no dung anywhere. Except on the roses! he suddenly realised with astonishment as they passed. But he said nothing and simply followed Erestor.

They came to a high garden above the steep banks of the river and the sound of it filled the air. There were the scents of the gardens around them as if Summer yet lingered here in this place of sanctuary and refuge and Legolas realised that he had slowed and that Erestor was waiting for him, a slight smile on his face. 'There is a sheltered place where Elrond keeps council. We will find Mithrandir there.'

Ahead of them was a covered porch, in that it was a terrace that had a roof over it to give shade and shelter. It faced East and so the sun poured over it, the stone was warm and the autumn leaves gold.

He felt the Song flood the clear mountain air, lacing through the arches and colonnades, drifting over the lawns and gardens and in the voice of the river and waterfalls. There was a sense of tremendous power and he remembered the man he had met yesterday, how the blue power seemed to lift him and whirl around him like all the Airs of the world, like he had been snatched up by the wind. For a moment he felt again the overwhelming power that he had felt before, the air swirling around the world, rushing between Sea and Stars, and quickly he stepped back from it before he became overwhelmed. He blinked slowly, his eyes focusing on Erestor's curious face.

A murmur of voices drifted over the gardens and Legolas turned to see that Erestor was watching him with a strange expression on his face. "What do you hear?' the Elf asked in a low voice. 'I have heard that the Woodelves can hear the Song more clearly than any others. Is that what you hear?'

Legolas looked up at him and nodded, a little bewildered at both the question and the power. 'Yes. Do you not hear it?' he asked. Erestor was taller than him by half a head, lean and strong. He stood close and Legolas was aware of his sharp cheekbones, his mouth and the intensity of his power.

'We hear it, in the breath of the world perhaps,' murmured Erestor staring at Legolas with his amber eyes. Legolas felt all the weight of the Elf's years, all his wisdom, hard won and paid for by long years in exile, in banishment, and finally in the restless peace of Imladris. 'We hear it in the cry of the gull or the wash of the sea. What do you hear?'

Legolas pondered but he could not find the words. It was in his veins and in the air he breathed. 'It is...it just is,' he said a little helplessly and Erestor nodded in understanding.

'Yes,' he said.'I have been told that. Long ago in Eregion, and once before, in Nargothrond. Finrod was glorious.'

Legolas knew he gaped but he had no time to ask for at that moment a single clear bell rang out to signal the Council was to begin.

o0o0o

Sorry- this bit was longer than I expected and I thought you would rather have another chapter posted than wait for me to finish the whole Council- which is quite complicated.

Next chapter is already complete and with Anar for betaing- I might be encouraged to post sooner than the usual two weeks :)


	8. Chapter 8 The Council Of elrond

Note: There are references to the Silmarillion in this chapter but they are Erestor's back story and you do not need to know all of them. Suffice to say that Erestor is old, has been around a bit, and has been associated with the House of Feanor as well as Elrond.

Beta: Gloriously wonderful Anarithilien who keeps me on the right track!

And thanks to Spiced Wine for her unflagging help and expertise in drawing out Erestor's story.

Warnings for this chapter: Slash implied.

**Chapter 8: The Council of Elrond**

A low mist lay over the valley dissolving the skyline and distance into one.

Legolas followed Erestor's tall figure across the dew-scattered lawns above the rushing Bruinen and below the sounds of the river was a murmur of voices. They took some shallow steps up to a large porch that was positioned on the terrace above the steep banks of the Bruinen, looking east. Erestor waited for him and gestured with his hand that Legolas should step forwards. There were a number of Elves already sitting on the stone benches that were placed around the edges of the terrace, and the Man he had passed earlier coming out of Erestor's chambers. The Elves were all Noldor, thought Legolas in dismay.

At the farthest end of the porch was the Elf who had surprised him in the cellar and Legolas had a better look at him now in the early morning light. Although his face was ageless as all Elves, his eyes betrayed him; the immense wisdom and sorrow that Legolas had touched the evening before was evident in his grey eyes and when he turned towards Legolas, he felt the same swirl of Air rushing between the Stars and the Sea and thought he seemed weighed down by an immense sorrow.

Beside him sat the most glorious Elf warrior that Legolas thought he had ever seen; the sun seemed to adore him, and even in the pale morning, his hair was shining gold, and his face was impossibly fair. When he turned his keen bright eyes upon Legolas, he seemed both fearless and full of joy.

Legolas knew instantly that this was the legendary Glorfindel and he thought of the line from the song they sang of him in the Wood, that on his brow sat wisdom and strength was in his hand.* There was of course a ruder version of that song too that Galion sang and he tried hard to quash the memory of a very drunk Galion singing it loudly beneath Thranduil's flet; a well-aimed empty flagon had been hurtled from the flet and stopped the song, for a while at least. Unaware of both incident and Legolas' recollection of it, Glorfindel smiled kindly at Legolas who tried to keep his mouth closed for it had dropped open and he knew he gaped like a fish on a riverbank.

There was another Elf too sitting next to them clad in the colours of the Havens, with long black hair and the grey eyes of the Noldor. He did not smile.

Erestor led Legolas forwards. In the shadows was the Man, Aragorn, and Legolas' heart sank further. He could see there was no way out now. And then a deeper rumbling of voices came from behind him and he glanced over his shoulder to see a number of Dwarves had joined them. They nodded and bowed to all assembled, their beards wagging and eyes bright, looked about them and talked loudly. The important Dwarf with the snow-white hair who had opened the door to the Homely House even bowed slightly to Legolas.

Erestor stopped in front of the three Elves. All looked up and the middle one, the man whom Legolas had recognised as being his kindly benefactor caught sight of Legolas and smiled. 'You have found our emissary from Mirkwood, Erestor.' He stood and greeted Legolas with a slight bow and Legolas found himself realising with horror, that this must be Elrond! Mortified he thought how he had stripped off and stood half-naked emptying his boots out into Elrond Half-Elven's wine cellar. Smaug's teeth, how could it get any worse? He hoped the Elf in the colours of the Havens wasn't Cirdan. That was all he needed.

'My...my Lord,' he stammered, blushing furiously.

''An Elf come from Mirkwood to take part in a council of the Wise?' the Elf from the Havens laughed and Legolas frowned for it did not sound well meant. 'I suppose your _King_ has other...'

'Mirkwood? It must have been an interesting journey,' Glorfindel interrupted smoothly and was looking at him with interest. He rose to his feet and took Legolas' arm, steering him to a seat. 'We were wondering if you travelled with the Dwarves.'

'No!' he said rather more loudly than he meant, and the Dwarves looked around. The most important Dwarf with the snow-white hair and heavy gold chain turned and looked inquiringly at Legolas. 'No, I mean... Not really,' Legolas said quickly. 'We merely arrived at the same time.' Glorfindel looked politely amused and Legolas blushed furiously.

'Are you not a servant here?' asked the Dwarf astonished. 'I thought...'

'No!' said Legolas again, slightly louder and feeling slightly hotter. 'I am a messenger, from the Woodland Realm. I have a message for Mithrandir,' he said, wishing for all he was worth that Mithrandir would appear.

'He will be here soon,' Elrond said kindly and Legolas felt as if a balm had been poured over him. Slow peace washed over him, like warmth, and his trouble was soothed away. It seemed that he was not the only one for a contemplative quiet fell upon them all.

And then a small figure stepped onto the porch, and looked about himself bemused. Behind him was Mithrandir and two other Hobbits, one of which Legolas recognised as Bilbo Baggins, though he was much changed and now seemed bent over with some great care.

At their entrance, Elrond rose and all eyes turned to him. Erestor discreetly shoved Legolas to a seat and inclined his head meaningfully while Elrond turned to the assembled company. His wise face was kind and he looked suddenly as though he felt the weight of all his lineage and his sorrowful history and Legolas felt his troubles dwindle before the ancient sorrow of Elrond and his house.

'Here my friends,' said Elrond slowly, seriously, 'is the Hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither though greater peril or on an errand more urgent.'

Legolas stared. What peril could this Hobbit have come through that was so immense that it merited this council of all the Peoples of Arda? For it seemed to him that the Song was amplified and he knew that all these people were supposed to be here, and that included him. He caught Mithrandir's eye then and the blue eyes twinkled and the Wizard gave him a nod in greeting. Legolas tried to keep his gaze and frowned and willed him to understand, but to his consternation Mithrandir looked away in what Legolas thought was almost willful misunderstanding.

And so he missed the fact that Elrond was making introductions and the next thing he knew everyone was looking at him expectantly and Elrond was saying, 'Legolas, a messenger from his father, Thranduil King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood.'

Legolas almost jumped up but Elrond moved smoothly on. 'Here is Boromir, a man of the South. He arrived in the grey morning and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered.'

But then, what was said over the hours that followed, reduced him to a state of stunned fear. For the Hobbit had the One Ring, Isildur's Bane, and he had been pursued by the Nazgul and now brought it here to Elrond. Legolas listened attentively to Gloin's story of Khazad-dum; he remembered something in his lessons once long ago about Dwarves living there and he thought his father might need to know but he was still reeling from the news of the One Ring.

_Bilbo had had it when he was hiding in the stronghold, _he thought in horror. The Ring had been there, in his home. Only now when he had heard all of the story and how Gollum was involved did he realise just how great a task the Wood had been given. Aragorn had just spoken, saying that he for one was glad that the Elves of Mirkwood had Gollum safely in their keeping and Legolas knew that he had to speak for he could not keep silent now.

Slowly he rose to his feet, heart pounding and he felt himself hot and flushed. Elrond's kind eyes turned to him as he rose and he felt the weight of the whole council's regard. 'The tidings I was sent to bring must now be told,' he said ashamed and distressed for he knew this would bring trouble to the hearts of the Council and he had heard what trouble there was already on the world. 'They are not good but only here have I Iearned how evil they may seem to this company. Smeagol who is now called Gollum, has escaped.'

Aragorn made a sound of disgust. 'Escaped? That is ill news indeed. We shall all rue it bitterly I fear. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?'

The words were bitter and spoken in haste, Legolas knew, but he turned in swift defence of his home.

'Not through lack of watchfulness. But perhaps through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others and that more is known of our doings than we would wish.' For it had not been Anglach's fault, nor his, and he tried not to think of the nervous and suspicious glances between the warriors, or how they had treated some of the Woodmen in the days after the attack. 'We guarded this creature day and night at Gandalf's bidding, much though we wearied of the task.' He threw a look towards Gandalf thinking he might at least intervene and save him this scathing humiliation but the Wizard was silent, his brows drawn together and his head slightly bowed, listening. 'But Gandalf bade us hope still for his cure and we had not the heart to keep him forever under the earth in his dungeon where he would fall back into his black thoughts...'

He told his tale briefly, not embellishing it for he did think he could do justice anyway. And in that moment all he could see was the terrible plunging pursuit into the southern part of the Wood...

..._Laersul's cries urging them on, recklessly, foolishly almost and himself standing amongst the twisted trees, bow taut, arrow drawn against his cheek, fingers ready to fly open...and ahead of him, a crowd of Orcs jeering and calling, too many. And suddenly between them he just glimpsed Naurion, his face white and screaming, his eyes squeezed shut, and a glint of steel caught...there was a spear being shoved slowly, slowly into the Elf's twitching body but not quite enough to kill and his hands clasped and opened and clasped and the steel shaft thrust in and out like a rape...There was a clear shot...and a cry and Laersul going down under a seething mass of Orcs like black beetles swarming and there was cold, freezing his scalp..._

He hoped it was enough that none would now question him for he did not wish to speak of it further, the image of Anglach in his last moments, the gurgling blood in his throat and the slow glazing of eyes that had shared so much with Legolas. He hoped the tears that had scalded his face as he held Anglach would not fall now... And perhaps they saw that in his face for no one questioned again that the Woodelves had failed in their trust. Even Aragorn was silent.

He sat down heavily and looked at his hands. Mithrandir told the last part of the story then and when Legolas raised his head at the evidence of Saruman's betrayal, which had long been the belief of Thranduil, he caught Erestor's strange amber eyes on him. The counsellor did not look away but inclined his head and gave a slight smile.

That kindness almost undid Legolas and he had to look away. He did not speak again though he listened carefully to the debate about what to do with the Ring. And he did not ask why they simply did not ask one of the Eagles to fly over Oroduin and drop the Ring into it, because he thought they would have considered it if it was not foolish and he was determined not to make any mistakes that would shame his father and his home.

When Elrond decided that the Ring should be taken to Mordor in secret, he thought it would be Glorfindel and Mithrandir who would take it, and maybe Erestor for he had hidden power too. So when the noon bell rang and Frodo stood and said that he would take the Ring, Legolas stared at the Hobbit with absolute respect and remembered that his father had always spoken most highly of Bilbo who had exceeded all the expectations of Elves, Men and Dwarves and as he realised that, he knew in his heart that this was right.

0o0o

Legolas had escaped the Council as soon as Elrond ended it and slid between the pillars of the porch easily, evading everyone and walking quickly back into the house. He had been a little bit lost but finally found his room at the top of the house. It was empty. The bed stripped and his belongings gone.

He sat for a moment on what he thought of as 'his' bed, head in his hands. It hurt still, the telling of his tale, for the grief was still too near and he did not wish to speak of it more. It had been harder than he had ever thought it would be and he thought now how foolish he had been to want to do this and not let Thalos come instead. His brother would have managed it with suavity and persuaded the Council that the Wood had done more than its due, had paid the highest price. Thalos would never have hidden his name for shyness. It was shameful.

There was a scuff of feet on the wooden stair outside and he lifted his head to see Berensul standing there.

'You should have told me,' he said accusingly.

Legolas looked away uncomfortably. 'I know that now. But I thought I would only be here for a day or two at most. I did not think it mattered.'

Berensul gave a disbelieving snort. 'I suppose I should call you your Highness or something now.' In spite of his anger however, Legolas noticed he did not leave or move away.

'No. I am none of those. I _am_ as I told you, Legolas of the Woodland Realm. That is all. I am no Prince of Elves or great Lord. I am the son of my father that is all. I have two older brothers who are far better than me at everything,' he said miserably and heaved a great sigh and hung his head again.

There was a pause and then Berensul said coldly, 'I am to show you your new quarters. Proper ones for the son of the Elvenking of the Northern Elves.'

'Not even my father calls himself King really,' Legolas replied heavily. 'He is the _aran._ It is more like chief than King but it is too hard to explain to people outside the Wood. And usually we cannot be bothered,' he added.

Berensul said nothing. Then he breathed in and looked away down the stairs. 'Come. I have to show you where you are to sleep. It is in the family's wing.'

Legolas' heart sank. Did that mean he had to have dinner with them and make small talk. He did not think he could. There would be Elrond Half-Elven, Arwen Evenstar, the Sons of Thunder, probably Glorfindel of Gondolin and Erestor of...well, who knew? Mithrandir and him. _Oh Manwe's holy wind_.

He rose reluctantly and followed Berensul back down the stairs to the wide terraces and lawns as he had earlier and with an equally heavy heart. The room was on a lower floor than the one he had shared with Berensul. And far more luxurious. It had tall windows that were open and looked westwards down the valley. A cold fresh wind blew the sheer drapes and the sunlight gleamed upon the marble floor. Legolas looked around. Everything was elegant, light and airy. There were two further doors leading off the room. His meagre pack was on the huge bed and Berensul was unpacking it for him in stony silence and refused to even look at Legolas.

'Please leave that,' he said, holding out his hand to Berensul appeasingly. 'Forgive me?'

'You should have told me, my lord,' was all Berensul said. Again. Legolas could say nothing and Berensul bowed low and mockingly and left Legolas to his own misery.

It had been worse than he had thought possible. From the moment he had stepped into Imladris to now, he had done nothing but humiliate himself and his father. He felt himself cringe as he thought of Berensul's kindness, the welcome in the kitchen and even Erestor's benign interrogation. Why hadn't he simply told them who his father was? He had no excuse. And it had been Elrond of course who had come across him half-naked in the wine cellar and emptying out his boots. And then Aragorn had poured scorn upon him and he had simply let him with a feeble protest that they had been bid to be kind. And then that damned Dwarf, Gloin, had launched in with the usual complaint against the Woodelves. Not once had Mithrandir had shown any remorse for what had befallen the Wood because of his request - a request that he had made knowing full well brought immense danger to the Wood - and yet had said nothing.

Well, Legolas determined, he had yet to speak properly to Mithrandir. And he _would_ give an accounting to Glorfindel of Anlgach's death, as he had sworn. And then he would leave. Elrond had indicated there would be messages going over the Mountains and though Legolas wanted nothing more than to sneak out of Imladris without having to see another soul, he did not relish another lonely journey over the Mountains. If it was in Aragorn's company, he thought, he would at least have an opportunity to put the Man right about the folk of the Wood.

He did not dare leave the room since it was in the family quarters and he could not bear to see anyone else right now. So he simply toed his boots off his feet and pulled the soft woolen blankets over his head and fell into reverie.

0o0o0

Once, long ago...in Nargothrond perhaps, thought Erestor as he strode through Imladris in search of Mithrandir, he had heard the Song like he heard it earlier that morning standing with Legolas in the garden. Then, it had been a strange ringing Song of the stone city, delved deep, carved and sculpted fair, and with sweeping grandeur. On such a morning as this had been, clear with the pale sun rising over the mountains and the river rushing below...

He sighed. Finrod had been glorious. Nor could he forget the two vibrant, sulky, selfish bastards who had shone and dazzled and betrayed. It was so long ago now and he felt, as he sometimes did, the weight of his years, the weight of all his losses.*

But standing with Legolas on the lawns of Imladris, he had heard Vilya's breath, soft and deep and like some great sleeping beast, or a storm far off in the Mountains but softened and eased in the Valley...rushing between the Stars and the Sea...like the breath of the Sea...

The Sea...

_The Sea...it had washed against the bottom of the white cliffs and a bird cried above the sobbing of the children...Had there been a sail far off on the horizon?**_

He paused, looking out over the Valley that had become his home, the sanctuary that Elrond had been determined to found, that had become his life too. And now the Ring was here...and Imladris trembled on the brink of disaster. He did not think he could bear seeing Imladris destroyed as Nargothrond had been, as Himring, as Sirion...Imladris was the last Sanctuary.

It was worth dying for.

He frowned at his dark thoughts; why was he suddenly pulled back into the Past? He knew the reason. The One Ring, _Ash Nazg,_ sought all their weakness. It sought the cracks, to further divide them.

At the Council, Erestor had not wanted to see the Ring. He had seen it before on the slopes of Oroduin when Isildur cut it from Sauron's hand and took it himself. Its whisperings and lure wrapped cold black fingers around his heart and fingered its way into his darkest thoughts...He braced himself as it was taken out and the surge of Power was like the Sea.

_...A bed, in disarray, sheets pulled off the bed and twisted like it was part of the passion. A long, lithe body lying on his bed, on his side, his back to Erestor but oh, colour and wildness, a wild coil of colour about his body, long blond hair pulled over one shoulder, the muscles of his body tensed and he looked back over his shoulder at Erestor and smiled, blinding, beautiful, seductive...Legolas Thranduillion. _

Erestor did not gasp then and he did not now. He had already recognised the temptation, that he was seduced, and that his curiosity was stirred but not his heart. And he did not think he needed _Ash Nazg_, the Ring, to have this child of the Wood who was naturally curious, already off balance and needing reassurance.

A momentary and fleeting desire. No more. His heart was buried deeper than that...

_You will have to do better than that,_ he said to the Ring.

And it had...

_...Eyes like starlight, a thick coil of copper silk hair pulled over one shoulder, he looked back over his shoulder at Erestor and smiled, blinding, beautiful, seductive...Erestor's mouth dry. Scorched by the intensity, his desire..._

'_One day you will come here for me...' Said with all the confidence of his House._

And he had. Oh, he had and there had been such glory in it...but they were gone. All of them. _Ash Nazg_ could not bring them back. There was nothing it could offer him.

_You are nothing, _he told _Ash Nazg_. _You are not Bauglir.****_

He shook himself. Too long ago, too far away and beneath the waves now, and he could not dwell upon what was Past. For one who had survived the Oath*, _Ash Nazg_ was as nothing.

He turned away then from the view of the Valley stretching away between the Mountains and into the blue distance. He turned away from the view as he turned from the truth.

...For he lied. There was one thing. But he buried it so deep in his heart that he did not admit it even to himself. He did not allow himself to even take out a single memory, buried it deep where none could find it.

He took three steps at a time, striding up the wide stone steps, and narrowly avoided a collision with one of the minstrels, Lindir, so immersed was he in his memories. He did not apologise or bow. Lindir was a useless frippery, as far as Erestor was concerned, who played badly. For he had heard the voices of Finrod and Maglor, and how could anyone come even close?

Erestor threw open a door and peered within. He took three steps across a room, a hallway, leapt down the steps four at a time, thinking that Elladan was a better singer than Lindir, his voice deeper than one would expect when he sang, and resonant. His nature was gentler than his wild and furious brother who would take both those Sons of Thunder to damnation. And there was nothing he, Erestor, could do to stop them.

Amidst the musical patter of the Hobbits' voices was a drift of smoke. Mithrandir lifted his head at Erestor's approach and nodded slightly.

Erestor did not interrupt. The Wizard would know to come. There was much to discuss.

He found himself near the stables. They had returned and he had much to think about and he found himself searching for the black horses of Elrond's sons.

_0o0o_

At last hunger woke Legolas and he sighed and rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, which was carved and painted. Of course, he thought grumpily. He could not really just stay here forever, he told himself. He would have to find Mithrandir. And he had vowed that Glorfindel would know of Anglach. He lay, looking upwards and listing in his head what he had yet to do.

The sun had set, the sky blushed pink, and the distant clouds were tinged with gold. Cold mountain air filled the room with the scent of pines and there must have been lavender planted beneath his windows. He felt better for it, and the room was graceful, elegant, just as everything was in Imladris.

Decisively he swung his feet to the floor and pushed himself to his feet. There was no jug of cold water or basin to wash his face so he simply rubbed his face and tidied up his clothes, pulled on his boots and opened the door of the room and went out.

There was a long window facing West at the end of the passage and the sun flooded through, blinding him. He walked hesitantly eastwards towards the wide stone staircase that swirled around and down towards the Hall of Fire when he thought the air shifted and the Song changed. His felt his blood thrum and his heart suddenly pounded in his chest.

His feet faltered and he stopped, leaned against the cold stone.

Was there the scent of snow, clean and cold on the mountains? And high high above he thought he heard an eagle cry... a deep rhythm pounded in his veins, drums beating like a heart, a strong heart, noble, and a crimson light flooded the air around him. Warmth and heat caressed him.

He turned back towards the setting sun and lifted his head to stare at a warrior who strode towards him it seemed out of the setting sun - long raven-black hair like silk worn loose and flowing, he was tall and broad shouldered, a swordsman not an archer, light on his feet and clad in black leather close to his skin. His grey eyes stared straight ahead and he barely registered Legolas, simply strode past, but the light, the air, surged about Legolas and he felt time had slowed and his destiny approached...and passed. He turned, lips parted and eyes wide, staring after the warrior...and the crimson power surged around him, ebbed with his passing and left Legolas breathless and limp.

The warrior turned his head after he had passed as if Legolas had called to him, and his eyes were wide and starlit grey. He stared but he did not stop, and turned away again.

Legolas reached out to steady himself against the stone sill of the window and leaned his forehead against the cold wall, breathing hard. He shook himself and turned, took a step after the glorious figure, and paused. What would he say? What would he do if the warrior paused and listened?

He had lost his nerve and rubbed his eyes and slowly carried on... but he could not lose that image of power striding down he halls of Imladris and he knew then, here was his destiny.

TBC

*Taken from LOTR The Council of Elrond. I have used bits of the descriptions of Elrond and Glorfindel so you may recognise phrases.

Just to exlplain that reference if you do not know the SIlmarillion, Nargthrond - the ancient Elven stronghold/ palace of Fingon. Beren came to Nargothrond seeking help, Finrod went with him on the Quest for the Silmaril to repay his debt. Celegorm and Curufin,* (the sulky bastards as Erestor saw them) who were living in Nargothrond at the time, persuaded (using barely veiled threats related to their Oath to Feanor to recover the Silmarils) most of Nargothrond to stay behind; only ten warriors, headed by one Edrahil, were faithful and came with them. Beneath the Shadowy Mountains they came upon a company of Orcs, and slew them all in their camp. They took their gear and weapons and by the magic of Finrod their own forms and faces were changed to the likeness of Orcs. Thus disguised they came far upon their northward road between Ered Wethrin and the highlands of Taur-nu-Fuin. However the twelve were captured and imprisoned by Sauron on Tol-in-Gaurhoth ("Isle of Werewolves"). Thus befell the contest of Finrod and Sauron. Finrod strove with Sauron in songs of power, and the power of the Elven King was very great but in the end Sauron had the mastery. It is told in the Lay of Leithian and Finrod was slain.

*Elros and Elrond were abandoned by Elwing, their mother- who took flight as a sea bird. The twins were then fostered by the surviving sons of Feanor

*Bauglir- a name given to Morgoth

For those of you who haven't read the Silmarillion, it doesn't matter. You just need to know that Erestor has been around a bit. And he has seen dreadful things and wonderful things.

Last note for LOTR geeks: I know Cirdan had a beard, I want to show how little Legolas really knows of other realms and history. The 'less wise' referred to what was valued by the Noldor and that included 'book learning', Quenya, the history of the Noldor themselves. Legolas knows other things that to HIS people, are valuable. Oropher went over the mountains to escape the Noldor.


	9. Chapter 9 The Hall of Fire

Note: There are references to the Silmarillion in this chapter but they are Erestor's back story and you do not need to know any of them. Spiced Wine, who posts on Archive of our Own and www. .de. writes the most sublime fics about Fëanor. I have been so influenced by her writing. She also has written a glorious spin-off of Sons of Thunder, Dark Star, published on both those websites.

**Beta: **Gloriously wonderful Anarithilien.

Thank you to reviewers -that's more like it! Especially Julsa (lovely to see you back) freddie23, Melethen, zoect, Fathless River, ThisLittlePiggyStayedatHome, Mary, Melusine, Emilie, WhereverWinterFell, Sapphirethief,gginsc, klc10, Emme, Karush, aRedbaroness, Marchwriter, leralonde, and all Guests. Aiwendiel, Spiced Wine, Naledi,Irishnite4, curiouswombat, danty, Narya, Alpha Ori, Melusine, It really helps to get reviews - like all writers, I am encouraged to write more with feedback and I am a rather needy writer. So thank you.

**Warnings**: Slash. Oh, and needless, pointless naked Glorfindel, in a bath. Nothing to do with the plot. Totally unnecessary.

**Summary: **The Council has taken place. Legolas has seen Berensul who is angry and unforgiving. Erestor has found Mithrandir who was with the Hobbits, to let him know the inner circle is meeting once again to talk through what they now know - that has just finished. Elrohir has just passed Legolas.

**Chapter 9: The Hall of Fire**

Legolas ran lightly down the steps and looked first one way, then the other for the glorious warrior who had passed and left him light-headed and breathless. But he had gone.

An Elf carrying a small harp hurried along a path below the terrace where Legolas stood. Another two Elves waited for him, looked behind and called to him in merry voices. Legolas thought of calling out, asking them if they had seen the warrior. But what would he say? And he had already made enough of a fool of himself, By this time the harper had caught up with the other Elves and he pushed between them, throwing each arm around the others; shoulders and steered them away so that they, laughing, made their way across a lawn and disappeared between the shrubs. Their voices and laughter faded into the evening.

A wave of loneliness passed over Legolas then and for a moment he forgot the glorious warrior and thought of home; the last of the harvest would be in now and there would be a feast in the Greenwood, in the clearings amongst the great beeches. Thranduil would wear a crown of autumn leaves and berries and Laersul and Thalos would look up at the same stars he hoped, and think of him. And as the younger Elves leapt the bonfire, perhaps Miriel and Lossar would remember the last time they had gathered around a bonfire, the smell of smoke and the flames leaping. Sighing, he paused beside a still pool and looked up at the sky where a crimson sunset bled into twilight. The calm peace of Imladris was like the chiming of clear bells, of stone and high mountains, and water rushing, flowing, and the air, all the winds of the world, the power of Air ...

He listened silently, and slowly, so he barely noticed, his breathing deepened and slowed, and caught the rhythm of the great soaring notes of the Song. It was so very powerful here. Like watching a storm breaking around him...And as before, the great chords surged and rang about him, pulled on him like the Sea he had never seen. He felt himself dragged beneath its huge rolling notes and was submerged by the great Power...and he took a breath and pulled himself back a little, and then a little more, for last time he had almost drowned in its Power, lost himself in its beauty...

And he breathed again and opened his eyes, let the Song fade back so it was bearable... that when he caught a faint discordant note that ran beneath everything...

He realised the noise had been with him for some time...frowning he tried to remember before...when had it not been in his head? Even as he thought the sound increased and he shook his head, it made him feel slightly off balance and disorientated. He heard it in the background like the whine of a wasp or mosquito, a tempo slightly too fast for his heartbeat, slightly too high for the beat of blood in his ears...it stirred and unsettled him and he looked around him, confused. What was it?

He had been knocked on the head once by an Orc, its great club brought down with ferocity that left him stunned and unable to move. It was like that a little now, but more subtle. He did not think it had been in his head in the Mountains, but then he had been too focused on listening for Orcs. Perhaps it had been the rockfall? Perhaps he had been hit on the head and even now the effect was making itself known. It would explain things, he told himself. He hoped it would not delay his departure though. If messengers were to cross the Mountains tomorrow he would go with them, come what may...

He sat quietly on the stone bench and stared into the still pool. Stars pricked out in the sky and he thought it was so peaceful here if only that ringing in his ears would stop. There was a sudden burst of song and music from somewhere, laughter.

He felt a little gnaw of resentment. Here was peace. No one feared attack. They did not even carry weapons. Yet every day the folk of the Wood were assailed, pushed back, slaughtered. He saw again Anglach's frightened eyes fix and glaze and the gurgle of air forced finally from his throat...that would never happen here. He clenched his jaw. His people were slaughtered while Elrond and his Noldor folk lived easily and safely in this Valley...And laughed at him, thought him a fool. He hung his head, the ringing in his ears grew louder and jangled at his nerves. He was a fool. He had brought shame upon his own people, his father...

_It could be different..._

Surely not. How could it be different?

_If you had a Ring of Power..._

But there were only the Three and who knew where those were. He shrugged off the thoughts like a blanket that was too hot.

There was a laugh high up. He turned angrily for the Noldor could well laugh at him, at his failure!

And then he saw Frodo, leaning on a balcony, his back to Legolas and laughing with one of the other Hobbits. A thin stream of smoke coiled from his mouth and then he turned and his wan little face peered down at Legolas, a flash of gold peeped from his shirt and Legolas reeled with shock. The Ring.

He glanced up at the Hobbits again. Frodo had seen him and raised his hand a little hesitantly as if unsure what Legolas' reaction would be. Without a second thought, Legolas gave a wide smile and lifted his hand in greeting. Immediately the ringing eased and he felt like a yoke had been lifted from his shoulders. Frodo looked surprised for a moment and then his own smile broadened. Almost immediately someone pulled at Frodo's sleeve and he looked away.

Legolas sat watching the Hobbits for a moment and then turned away himself, feeling that sudden pang of loneliness and homesickness again. Unlike the Hobbits, he didn't know anyone here and it was all just a bit too different to be comfortable. Everything was a bit too sleek and polished, luxurious and safe...He laughed at himself then. Too safe! And the resentment he had felt a moment ago vanished. It was good to know that somewhere was a sanctuary, for folk like the valiant Hobbits.

'It is good to meet a fellow traveller,' a voice came from his right, and the Man, Boromir of Gondor, stepped from the shadows where he had been standing. 'I have come a great distance too,' he continued and came to stand beside the bench where Legolas sat, as if he had been waiting for him.

It took Legolas aback for he had not known he was watched. He smoothed his hands over his hair a little self-consciously and wondered how long Boromir had been standing there, whether he had seen Legolas caught up in the Song. And if he did, what had he thought?

Legolas glanced at him sideways but the Man was looking up at the balcony where the Hobbits were gathered. He was silent for a while and then he said, 'Is it not strange that Isildur's Bane should fall into the hands of a Halfling?' Boromir shook his head in wonder. 'And it was in the Halls of your King for a while.'

Legolas did not speak, for it had crossed his mind too. How had they not known? He remembered again how Galion had never quite believed Bilbo's story of hiding unseen in their Halls...

But Boromir interrupted his thoughts again. 'Do you go to the Hall of Fire? There is story-telling and music I hear.'

Legolas realised suddenly that he had been almost discourteous and where Boromir was making an effort to make conversation, to be friendly, he had not uttered a single word. So he shook himself and remembered the manners that his father had drummed into him. 'Forgive me,' he said with a slight bow. 'Yes. I had thought to listen to the singing and Mithrandir will be there. I have to speak to him before I leave.'

'That will not be soon surely?' asked Boromir. 'Will you not help to ensure that the Ringbearer leaves safely, and in secret?'

For the first time Legolas thought beyond his own desire to go home. He looked up at Boromir and studied the Man's face with interest. He was tall for a Man and broad. His shorn hair was dark and his eyes grey, he looked a little like Aragorn. He had the same look of command, and was used to being obeyed, a soldier, thought Legolas and relaxed. He could understand that.

'For my part I would see the Ringbearer safe. I will accompany him south if that is what he wishes,' said Boromir. 'My journey lies that way and I would see this done properly if this is what we are to do.'

Legolas found himself impressed with the Man's nobility and he considered for a moment the danger that Frodo faced the moment he set foot out of the Valley. And he wondered if he should not offer his help too if it were wanted.

'You will do this though you spoke against it in the Council?' Legolas watched him and the Man fidgeted a little. 'Have you changed your mind?'

'No. I do think it is a gift, but I am a Man of deeds, not thoughts,' Boromir laughed self-deprecatingly and Legolas liked him even more for that. 'So I will bow to the wisdom of those better and wiser than me,' he said.

Legolas smiled widely and the Man blinked. 'Then you and I are of an accord,' he said. "I am not one of the Wise either and it occurred to me that it would be easier for one of the Eagles to take it and drop it into Mount Doom. But if Elrond and Mithrandir say this is a better way, who am I to question it?'

'You are a warrior too, of your Realm.' Boromir joined Legolas on the stone bench, and leaned back to stretch out his legs. He was not as tall as Legolas and much heavier, stockier, but Legolas thought he was probably a handsome Man.

'You should ride out in the morning with those of us who would clear the way if we can for the Ringbearer,' Boromir continued and although Legolas thought it strange that he did not use Frodo's name, he agreed that it seemed craven to abandon the Hobbit when there was so much danger ahead of him. Perhaps he could in some small way, lessen that.

'Do you leave in the morning? I will go with you if I am needed or can be useful,' he said and he thought it might too in some small way, recompense for his poor tidings.

'Of course you will be,' Boromir glanced sideways at him and then turned his gaze back to the darkening Valley. 'How can you not be? You fight the enemy every day as we do in my city.'

Legolas felt a sudden kinship. 'I am better amongst the trees hunting, or fighting. I am quite useful there my father says.' He smiled and a sudden wrench of homesickness twisted his stomach and he wanted to go home. 'I am not very good at councils,' he admitted.

Boromir laughed softly and there was genuine warmth. 'The same is said of me. I am a captain and amongst my men I am happiest. And my brother is by far the wiser of us, and the skilled diplomat.'

Legolas smiled. 'I have two brothers and both of them would have managed any of this a hundred times better than I,' he said fondly. 'My brother Thalos is renowned for his diplomacy. He could win silk off a spider! And my eldest brother, Laersul, is a warrior of great renown. He stood with our father at Erebor and led the battle.'

Boromir hesitated and then he looked at Legolas. 'I think you were treated hard by the council,' he said quietly. Legolas looked down. 'It is no shame to have suffered attack when you think you are safe within your own walls. You lost lives. Some of your own men, I think.' He paused and looked out over the Valley that stretched below them between the Mountains. 'I have lost friends too.' He turned and looked at Legolas smiling warmly. 'You acquit yourself well I think. You spoke well, you told us the horror without the detail, which none needed by that time. You made me at least, see that you have paid a price indeed for Gandalf's friendship.'

There was a burst of music and laughing from the open doors of the Hall of Fire and both turned their faces towards it for a moment, then looked back. Legolas saw how the Man's face had strange deep lines in the skin, on the cheeks and a crinkling around the eyes. Between his brows two deeper lines were set and he caught himself staring in fascination. He smiled widely and the Man's eyes looked dazzled for a moment.

Legolas shook himself. 'Come, let us go in and drink together, and hear the songs of Imladris for they are said to be fair minstrels, and I have yet to find Master Bilbo and pass on my father's greetings.'

So they pushed their way into the Hall where folk were already drinking and making merry. Loud, deep laughter came from the centre of the room and Legolas saw that the Dwarves had already settled in, taking most of the carved chairs. There were serving Elves rushing to fill the great tankards, to bring them wide platters of delicacies, and the Hobbits were sitting with the Dwarves. The fires seemed to roar in the Dwarves' presence, glowing on their faces and gleaming in their beards. They took up a great deal more room than their size suggested they should, thought Legolas. He shook his head, for that tinny noise suddenly surged in his ears and then subsided abruptly. He thought he should find a healer before he began the journey back. Was not Elrond the greatest of healers? But he could not bother so great a lord for so tiny an ailment.

There were harps playing and different voices in various parts of the Hall. There seemed to be many people here and Boromir stayed at his elbow.

Household Elves moved between the groups, pouring wine and passing plates of delicacies. Legolas saw that Elemé was near a table, leaning over and pouring ale into the tankard of one of the Dwarves, whose chestnut beard twitched as he talked. As Elemé tipped the heavy jug, it wobbled in her hand and for a moment it looked like she would drop it or spill ale over the Dwarf, but the Dwarf lifted his square hand and gently, gently steadied her. Legolas saw her look at him with sudden wonder, meeting the Dwarf's dark eyes and smiling. He bowed gallantly and took the heavy flagon from her and set it down on the floor. Legolas could not hear what he said to Elemé but she dipped her head and dropped a little curtsey to him. He inclined his head slightly so he could see the Dwarf better; he sat beside the important Dwarf with the heavy gold chain and had the same look of him about the eyes so Legolas thought he might be a relative. But then he was distracted by the way Elemé shifted and as she turned to serve another guest, her long dark hair gleamed in the candlelight and her gown caught on something and was pulled suddenly tight over her breasts and thighs for a moment. And then she pulled it free and it dropped around her again.

He knew he was staring because she glanced up as though she felt his eyes upon her and she smiled.

He smiled in return and inclining his head towards Boromir, murmured, 'Excuse me my lord, there is someone I must speak to.' Boromir made a noise that Legolas took to be understanding and made his way through the throng towards Elemé. She moved ahead of him, consciously swaying her hips he knew, and he smiled, watching her long hair falling down her back. And then he saw Berensul stop and speak to her. His green eyes flicked up to Legolas and hardened; he said something to Elemé in a low voice and Legolas saw her shrug and glance over her shoulder at him. He looked away then, uncomfortably and unsure of himself suddenly. Was Berensul never going to forgive him? And was he poisoning the rest of Imladris against him?

A tinny ringing started in his ears again and he frowned. It was distracting. And irritating. It made him feel impatient and angry. Who did Berensul think he was? Suddenly he had had enough. He would stop this.

He strode towards Berensul, pushing between the crowds assuredly until Berensul saw him and looked up, met his eyes and for a moment it was he who looked uncertain. Then hard resentment came down in his eyes again and as Legolas approached he turned to Legolas, unsmiling, cold.

'My lord?' he said and bowed, but there was no respect there and Legolas knew he was mocking.

Concern flickered across Elemé's lovely face but she said nothing. Berensul's mouth was a hard thin line, lips pressed close together and Legolas frowned.

'What is your pleasure, my lord?' Berensul said again and Legolas felt his unflinching insistence and dropped his gaze. This was not how he wanted it to end, for he remembered the passion and desire, and Berensul's yielding body and full lips. He felt a twitch of desire in his groin and lust pooled in his belly.

'Berensul.' Elemé lay her hand on Berensul's arm but he shook her off and gave her such a look that she fled.

'Have you really no forgiveness in your heart, Berensul?' Legolas said quietly so no other could hear. The Elf said nothing but turned slightly so he almost, but not quite, had his back to Legolas. An Elf standing closest to them glanced at them curiously but when Legolas looked at him, his fury rising, the Elf's eyes widened and he looked away. And when Berensul ignored him and went as if to leave, Legolas put out his hand and held him in a grip more used to knives and bows.

'Do you wish to dishonour me before my House?' Berensul whispered furiously. 'You have already shamed me.' Legolas felt his insides curl at the coldness but there was a fleeting expression on Berensul's face. Of hurt and regret and anger.

He did not know what to say and Berensul said nothing either. There was, after all, a limit to his guilt; in the Wood this would have been forgiven and he wondered that it seemed to burn so in the other's heart. And other eyes were drawn towards them now and Legolas felt the heat rise in his face.

Berensul's lip lifted in a curl of a sneer and something snapped in Legolas. He had had enough. He drew himself tall and thinned his mouth, eyes snapping green fire of his own and had he known it, the image of his father.

'Then you _will_ attend me,' he said. 'Now.' He did not care particularly that he shouldered his way past a number of surprised Elves, nor did he care much that Berensul muttered angrily at him as he strode from the hall and out into the cold night air.

It was scented with lavender and mint and camomile, even this late in the year, and frost that came down from the mountains on a drift of air.. .and for a moment he thought he heard an eagle cry and a thrum of blood rushed through his ears. Almost he stopped. Almost he stopped to listen for Song thrilled through his veins and nearly sent him running, searching, up the wide stone steps, through bowers of fading roses ... but he did not for at that moment, Berensul caught up with him and pulled his arm, pulled him round to face him furiously.

'What are you doing?' Berensul demanded. 'How dare you command me!' He caught up with Legolas and grabbed at his shoulder, pulling him round.

Legolas turned and squaring his shoulders, faced Berensul. They were of a height and he was glad he could look Berensul in the eye now. But when he looked, he saw hurt and pride in those green eyes and instead of speaking he grasped Berensul firmly by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall and kissed him. Long and tenderly.

At last he felt Berensul soften and he pulled back. 'I am sorry,' he said, looking into his eyes and holding his gaze earnestly.

Berensul looked down. He did not pull away and Legolas took heart and leaned in closer. 'I did not think. If I had known what would happen, I would have told you. I did not think it mattered,' he said earnestly. 'I only expected to be here for one, perhaps two nights and then leave.' And when Berensul did not turn from or pull away he leaned in closer again and rested his cheek against Berensul's. Then he turned his face slightly to press his lips against the warm cheek and nudged him so he turned too and could press his mouth against Berensul's. 'Forgive me,' he murmured. 'I cannot bear this to still be between us.'

Berensul sighed and let his forehead drop to Legolas' shoulder.

'Tell me you forgive me,' Legolas said softly, more insistently.

Berensul finally drew back, but still he would not look Legolas in the eye. 'Perhaps you should stay longer, get to know me better.'

'Then I am forgiven?' Legolas asked. He breathed in relief, it did not sit well with him to have hurt anyone, least of all one who was kind. 'And I would like to know you better,' he said earnestly. At that Berensul finally looked at him and smiled.

'You have bewitched me,' said Berensul like he meant it. 'I cannot think of anything else.'

For a moment Legolas hesitated for he did not wish to break Berensul's heart but he looked into the sparkling, lively green eyes that were no longer hard and icy. There was no lovelorn yearning in those eyes, just lust, and Legolas laughed breathlessly and pulled Berensul around so it was Legolas now who leaned against the wall and was glad for it was cold against his hot skin. He pulled Berensul in for a kiss and Berensul let his hand fall and pressed it against Legolas' crotch. Biting his lip at the instant surge of desire, Legolas felt himself swell and burgeon, filling. He gripped the other Elf's arms and pulled him in deeper, slid his hand down over Berensul's hip and felt the curve of his buttock beneath his tunic. Berensul smelled of clean linen and the sandalwood soap he had used himself earlier.

'You like that...' Berensul murmured and then shifted so the pressure changed, the sharpness, the sensation. 'And that?' He leaned in against Legolas' neck and his hot breath was on his skin. 'I know you like this...' He turned his head so he could trace his tongue up Legolas' neck to just below his ear and Legolas heard himself gasp and his breathing grow heavier. He moved his hips and pulled Berensul even closer so Berensul's hand was harder against him and he tilted his head so he could kiss Berensul more deeply.

'Do you want to take me now? Here?' whispered Berensul and Legolas let his head fall back against the wall, half closed his eyes and nodded.

'I do, but ...' Legolas opened his eyes, frustrated and wanting. He reached out to grasp Berensul's hand, to pull him back. 'We should not. It is too much of a risk. You said that there are many who would mind and surely your place here would be at risk?'

Berensul let his long dark hair fall over Legolas' chest, mingle with Legolas' own long blond hair. 'I do not care. It will be exciting.' He smiled captivatingly and Legolas shook his head and bit his own lip for there was ripple of desire in his belly and excitement.

'And if we are seen?' Legolas asked with barely concealed lust and all reason flying on the wind. He had forgotten Esgaroth, forgotten all his indiscretion and Thranduil would surely never find out?

Berensul smiled again. 'Come then, into the shadows.'

Sudden sharp footsteps approached. They both started for an Elf came striding down the wide stone steps, his long night-silk hair flowed around him, loose, unbraided, to his waist and his sable cloak billowed from his shoulders like a storm. The air thrummed and Legolas felt his skin tingle like lightning had passed over him. He stared as the warrior passed, and as he had before, he felt his breath catch and blood surge.

The warrior strode past and as he did he glanced at them both, first at Berensul and then a long look at Legolas. He nodded cursorily, unsmiling, and did not stop.

'Who is that?' asked Legolas breathless, heart beating wildly in his chest so surely Berensul must hear it.

'That is Elrohir Elrondion.' Berensul looked away and his face was troubled.

'One of the Sons of Thunder?' Legolas asked, staring after him. Of course he should have known for the likeness to Elrond was startling, but he had not seen it before, too swept away by the presence, the glory of him to have noticed.

'That is what the Orcs of the Mountains call them,' Berensul said a little curtly but Legolas was too lost in wonder to notice why he did not speak proudly of the sons of his Lord.

'Every warrior of the Wood has heard of them,' Legolas stared after Elrohir. He touched his lips slightly where Berensul had kissed him but the desire that broke over him like a wave was not merely from the kiss.

Berensul sighed as if he knew. 'Listen to me,' he said and turned Legolas' face towards him with his finger. 'You are not the first to fall for the Sons of Thunder. And you will not be the last. But you are wasting your time.' He held Legolas' chin between his forefinger and thumb and looked earnestly into his eyes. He shook his head at the besotted, lost look he saw there and tutted. 'My Lord Elrohir has lost all his mirth, all his love, all his joy, and relentlessly he pursues vengeance. He has no lovers and spurns both maids and men... He does not love.'

Berensul paused and glanced after Elrohir anxiously as if afraid of being overheard, and he drew Legolas away from the Hall, to a lawn secluded by tall shrubs and the lingering scent of roses that seemed to drift in the gardens of Imladris, even so late in the year.

He lowered his voice to almost a murmur and Legolas had to lean in close to hear him. 'Be wary of that one. His brother is so courteous and pure, and although a fierce warrior, a healer first. And once, I am told, Elrohir was the same, the light of the Lady Celebrian's life. But when she was brought home so maimed and hurt, all the joy went from this House and the Sons of Elrond went on their quest for vengeance.' He lowered his voice even more and their breath mingled in the cold air. 'Even here there are those troubled by it. They say that Elrohir enjoys the slaughter and that his sword sings.' He paused and looked at Legolas. 'I should not have said so much. It is disloyal. They, the family, have suffered so much. Who can blame him?'

Legolas lifted his head and looked back to where Elrohir had gone. It seemed to him a trail blazed in his wake and he understood. And he did not blame him either.

0o0o0

Elrohir had seen the Mirkwood Elf twice now since he and Elladan had returned from the Wild, their blades notched and blunted and Elrohir's blood still full of bitterness and lust. The news that Isildur's Bane had been found and was now in Imladris had done nothing to gentle him. Instead there was a nervous excitement that fluttered in his chest; the One had been found. It was here. Sauron's one precious thing...it would destroy him were it to be unmade.

It had been uppermost in his thoughts when he saw the Mirkwood Elf.

The first time he saw him Elrohir had not even noticed the Elf until he drew level; the sun had been behind Elrohir and suddenly blazed over the Mirkwood Elf, stroked his long hair to molten gold, lit those strange green eyes. A green-gold light seemed to flood the air so it was like walking through a forest glade where sunlight filtered through the new leaves...beech leaves, Elrohir had thought as he strode away and did not stop but turned his head to stare...he noted how open was his lovely, fearless face; the straight nose, high cheekbones, full sculpted lips and generous mouth.

Now here he was again and this time Elrohir knew it was the youngest son of Thranduil. And he was with Berensul, Elrohir thought with contempt as he approached. It would be no secret what Berensul had been doing with him. They said that in Mirkwood, they were more dangerous, less wise; they said they were promiscuous and indiscreet. Elrohir had noted how close Berensul stood to the Elf, almost touching, the taste of Woodelf still on his mouth no doubt, the feel of his skin still on his fingers...Elrohir's lip curled in contempt; he could almost smell them as he passed, musk and sweat, could almost see them, sweat on gleaming skin, naked, limbs entwined, tongues, hands, long hair tangled pale gold and dark...

Elrohir's fists clenched and did not stop, but he took a longer look at the Elf this time; and the long green eyes widened when they saw him. Elrohir gave but a slight, perfunctory nod that merely acknowledged that he had seen them.

But a flood of lust coiled in his belly and loins and he did not pause, did not stop, his fingers curled into fists and he relentlessly squashed the image of long pale hair tangled with night-silk black, raven and gold...It came too close to the secret fear he stored in his heart.

He felt Aícanaro hiss softly in his sheath and let his hand fall on the sword's pommel. But it did not rest...a thrum through the steel tingled his fingertips and lust uncoiled, unsatisfied, bloody and violent. Even the massacre of goblins they had found in the Wild had not sated the darkness of the blade. Even though Elrohir had impaled a still living goblin upon a lance and left it twitching, gibbering and howling as a warning to others, was Aícanaro as unsatisfied as he?

The armoury door was ajar and light spilled onto the path, silvered already with frost although it was still only autumn. He shoved it open impatiently and saw that Elladan stood there in the candlelight, head bent as he looked over his own sword, Alcarinwë. His long hair fell in a sheet over his shoulders and he was tall and straight, a reflected image of Elrohir himself until Elladan raised his head and smiled. The sweetness of Elladan's smile always took Elrohir aback, for it was so unlike his own unsmiling grimness and his mouth twisted ironically.

'It is well that our swords are sharp and bright for this journey,' Elladan said in way of explanation for his presence. 'You will go with Aragorn of course?' He stood at the whetting stone, small wheels of stone mounted so one could turn it and hold the blade against it so it gradually honed the steel. His foot worked the pedal that turned the stone and a trickle of water kept the blade cool.

'Of course.' Elrohir unsheathed dark Aícanaro and weighed it in his hand, feeling the curve of the hilt, the thickness of it like it had been made for him, though it had not. 'This is his greatest test and I would not abandon him now.'

'Nor I.' Elladan bent over the whetting stone, and lay his blade gently against it. 'Glorfindel surely will go with us. And perhaps Erestor.'

Elrohir did not look up but watched the blade sharp on the stone, soothed by the sparks that flew from the blade. 'Frodo has an esquire with him. Samwise. He will go to wait upon Frodo. And Mithrandir of course.'

'Father will choose some others to go with him.' Elladan spoke softly but it would have had the same effect had he shouted and bellowed. Elrohir stiffened at the mention of his father and Elladan glanced at him and looked away again.

'There is the Man too. From Gondor. Boromir,' he said thoughtfully. 'He is going South anyway.'

Elrohir frowned. 'Denethor's son.' Neither spoke for a moment, remembering how Denethor had been when Aragorn dwelt for a while in Gondor and fought in her army.

'Will Denethor remember Thorongil I wonder,' Elladan tilted his head and changed the angle of his blade slightly, carefully angled the blade against the whetting stone, turning it often and its soft scrape and whir was strangely soothing.

'Sauron's fall does not guarantee Denethor will yield the throne,' Elrohir said darkly. 'And Aragorn will still have no army to challenge him.' Elrohir watched the sparks fly and the white metal of his brother's sword seemed as pure as he was.

'And our promise to Arwen?'

The brothers' eyes met like lightning. 'We will stand by her, keep our promise. Even if we fall beside Aragorn, we will have kept our word.'

'And father?'

Elrohir's eyes hardened to ice. 'What does it matter what Elrond thinks? He sits by and lets the world happen.' Celebrián's ghost almost shimmered between them and Elrohir clenched his teeth remembering the thinness, the faraway look in her eyes that would not meet his for the years Elrond had uselessly stood by and let her fade...unable to heal her soul. And then given up and let her go.

And now the healing Elrond tried to pour like a balm over Elrohir served only to infuriate him; had it not been useless for his poor damaged mother? How dared he! Elrohir did not want healing, he did not want to forget, he did not want to let those memories dim and fade. He needed them to spur him on to greater vengeance, and he and Elladan would not have returned except for the news that Nazgul had entered the Valley and they had turned back from the Wilds and ridden with haste.

'He is acting now,' Elladan observed. 'Destroying Isildur's Bane will destroy Sauron forever. At last.' He lifted his frost-white sword and squinted along the blade. 'All these unexpected visitors, they have thrown Erestor into turmoil.' He raised his grey eyes to Elrohir's and smiled mischievously and instantly Elrohir felt his heart lift and the violent lust that coiled in his belly slunk away. Elladan's own sweet calm soothed him and he smiled, for he loved his brother.

'Erestor is never in turmoil.'

'True. I suppose I mean the household. Dwarves have drunk all the beer, the Hobbits are eating all the food and the Woodelf is corrupting the staff.' He grinned and picked up his own whetting stone and lay it on the wide bench. A small bottle was already open on the bench and Elladan poured a tiny amount over his stone and lay his sharp sword against it now. Elrohir grunted in sort of agreement and let himself still. The grinding of stone on metal was soothing. 'Legolas Thranduillion seems to have set all the gossips' tongues loose,' he observed, concentrating on the bright sword. 'Have you met him yet?'

Elrohir said nothing but his thoughts lingered on the wide green eyes, the pale hair that swept down his straight back and a violent urge swept over him, making him almost tremble...Bile rose suddenly in his throat.

He forced it down. 'An Elf from Mirkwood...he is nothing. It is as Aragorn says; Mirkwood failed in our trust.' Elrohir paced the small area restlessly. He wanted to unsheathe dark Aícanaro but restrained himself. 'They are too busy drinking and feasting and whoring.'

Elladan glanced up at him in surprise and then dropped his gaze back to his sword. 'He is an archer of some note, Erestor says. And he crossed the mountains on his own when he companions were hurt.' Elladan picked up a small piece of sword-grit paper, sand glued onto one side and stroked it over the frost-white blade of Alcarinwë. 'He pursued the Orcs that attacked their home well into the South, to the shadows of Dol Guldur,' he added, concentrating on polishing his sword now so its bright metal gleamed in the lamplight.

He spent a little while longer polishing the blade and Elrohir watched silently, quelling the violence that surged through his groin and swelled his cock. He clenched his teeth and fists and wondered why it was now.

He caught Elladan watching him with a slight smile on his clear, lovely face. Ironically, Elrohir lifted one black brow in quizzical imitation of their father and Elladan laughed aloud then. He let his head tip back slightly when he laughed, which he did often, and then his sparkling grey eyes rested upon Elrohir.

'You are thinking too much,' he said lightly and slapped Elrohir on the chest. 'Leave Aícanaro and take off the cuirass and all this weighty mail and feel something other than War. Let us go to the Hall and listen to Dwarves singing. I like their deep voices.'

Elrohir shook his head slightly and smiled back. 'Very well. I will go with you. Gloín is amongst them whom I recall when they were here with Thorin Oakenshield.' He unbuckled his scabbard and laid Aícanaro on the bench where the smiths would find it the next morning. Elladan lay his own sword alongside.

As they left, Elrohir could not help but turn his head and look at Aícanaro and it seemed to him that his brother's frost-white Alcarinwë dimmed a little beside his own dark blade.

0o0o0

Elrond removed his circlet and placed it carefully on the dresser, rubbing his temples and wondering why his head pounded. He shucked off his heavy robes and threw them on the wide, empty bed. He looked at the bed for a moment. It had been so long. Celebrián would have known what to say, soothed him with a word, or a cool hand...He looked down knowing it would not be necessary had she been here.

He poured himself a glass of thin white wine from his own vineyards on the lower slopes of the mountains. It had a taste of steel that cut through richness and that he liked.

He sighed and shook his head, and pulled a serviceable tunic from a pile of clothes shoved over a chair. He pulled it on and chose a wide leather belt, fastening it and pulling it tight. More comfortable now, Elrond closed his hand over Vilya, let her warmth and power suffuse his own limbs now, soothe him.

Vilya always calmed him.

Even as Elrohir always distressed him.

He always knew when his sons neared the Valley, and always he threw out all the power of Vilya towards them, pulling them home, like a magnet. But whilst Elladan's calm blue peace reached out to him, the confused anger of Elrohir repelled him, throw him off like he was besieged. It always hurt. And now, when so much teetered on the brink of disaster, he gently pulled away and let Elrohir come to him. He waited, wishing they would come to him sooner, to confide in him...to rest their weary heads against his chest as they had done so long ago when they were children. But no longer.

They came to him now out of duty, not out of need or love. Usually it was terse, brief, a report no more. Usually Elladan stood silently by until Elrohir had given his report. But this time it was Elrond telling them of the Nazgul, of the discovery of the One Ring, and then as always, Elrohir had turned furiously, blaming Elrond somehow that he did not destroy it sooner, did not wrest it from Isildur and cast it himself into Mount Doom. Eru knew how much Elrond wished that himself. But he had no comfort from Elrohir who left in a whirl of furious energy, trailing his crimson fury and bitter anger like a banner, a long ribbon of fire. And Elrond was left feeling, as he always did, that he had failed his child somehow...

Elladan gave him a distressed look and reached out to his father gently, briefly, but then followed his brother soon after.

Elrond let them go, with regret and with no way of reaching out to each other across the hurt and pain of their shared loss. He turned away from himself in those moments, wondering how it was that he could heal others so easily yet could not heal his own bereaved family...how it was that he could not reach their souls.

His thoughts wandered now in his fatigue. It had been an already exhausting day without the added distress of his sons; the council had ended with Frodo saying he would take the Ring and it was clear that not only Mithrandir, his old friend, but Aragorn too would go. And the Man from Gondor, Boromir, son of Denethor.

The inner council meeting that had continued afterwards had been irritable and frustrating, with Erestor provoking Cirdan's emissary, Galdor. Elrond frowned. He would have to speak to Erestor and warn him to leave Galdor be. Another time Erestor would have agreed with Galdor that Thranduil had deliberately kept knowledge from them but he seemed to have been beguiled by the _child_ Thranduil had sent to bear the news of their failure. In the end, Elrond had left them, saying he would greet his returning sons, for he had not seen them all Summer, although he knew they had travelled a while with Aragorn. It hurt even more than that they had stayed away.

He sipped his wine quietly, letting the cold steel taste bite the edge of his tongue, warm his throat, drive away those thoughts. It was the wine he had fetched from the cellar the day before, when he found Legolas Thranduillion half naked in his wine cellar. He smiled. He did not think he would ever forget such a sight; wild colour coiling around the naked chest, down one shoulder and curling around his waist, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. Not a child, he corrected himself. Young. Untutored perhaps, unlettered...less _wise_, but no child. And though he had been brought up by the Sons of Feänor, Elrond knew the Silvan folk of Mirkwood had their own wisdom. He savoured a mouthful of wine, let it soak his mouth, and thought of the gleaming naked skin, with its wild swirl of colour coiling sensuously about the Woodelf's lean, young body...

Thoughtfully he opened the door from his rooms into his marble terrace and the thermal pools he had designed for his own use but generously shared with those closest to him. This small luxury that he owed himself; he went there to replenish his own energy when he had given everything to another in healing. It was lovely, this suite of rooms, decadent he knew and indulgent. But he forgave himself the luxury for he had sought peace when Gil-Galad fell and Imladris had brought him that sanctuary. Here Air met Water in all its forms and Vilya was replenished by it, had led him here all those years ago, her spirit reaching for this place as if it were Magic. Vilya showed him how the Elements were brought together in this place; deep in the heart of the Mountains was Fire and above him, Air which was wild and sweet after the taint of Mordor. Waterfalls like silver ribbons fluttered in the moonlight, and deep pools were still and reflected the moon, silver and black, like the armour worn by his sons. As distant and as far from him as the Moon, he thought sadly.

He stood for a moment, thoughts returning again to them; it was always Elrohir who led, like a storm, full of anger and bitterness at their mother's torment, full of resentment towards Elrond himself, that dark, untrustworthy blade in his hand and Elrond saw only shadows around his son. And Elladan followed, his sweet son, the healer, who tempered his brother's fury...And then there was Arwen, who was already lost to him and was a shadow on the edge of his dreams.

He opened the glass doors onto the terrace and stood in the evening light. The air from the Mountains was clear, with a drift of frost. He pulled open his shirt and let the moonlight and cold air touch him lightly.

The night unrolled above him, clouds pushed back to reveal the glittering sky and there was the Mariner...He dipped his head, hardly able to look and in this moment of solitude and quiet, took out his own resentment and explored the bitterness that always pierced him as that star rose. He did not believe it was his father. It was a tale, that was all. But the child in him wished so hard sometimes that he had not been left alone by all he loved...they had all left him, or soon would. He could not remember his parents, but he had lost to the Void the bright shining souls that burned and flared in the world, that were the family who brought him up*...He saw the same fire in Elrohir, saw the same obsessive intensity and power, feared it would destroy Elrohir as it had destroyed the Sons of Fëanor. And that his sweet Elladan who would not abandon his brother, as the sons of Fëanor would not abandon their Oath, would follow Elrohir on the paths of Men.

He would lose them all.

He wondered if the Valar had intended to curse his House as thoroughly as he felt they had. It was a bitterness in his heart still and he found, in the stillness of the quiet moments where there was only him and Vilya, for those who were most precious to him, he would gladly pay any price...

The moment trembled, for he had here in his House the One Ring. And Vilya felt it.

It would be easy...there was only Gandalf who would oppose him. Vilya was more powerful...she harnessed the power of the Air...

A cold breeze stroked him, brought him back to himself. He blinked. It had been working on him all the time he had been with Frodo. The perfect gold, the perfect roundness of It against Frodo's skin..._Such perfection, such gold...so precious...It would be easy.._.

He drank deeply letting the wine warm his throat and chest and the taste soak his mouth, distract him from those dangerous temptations. How easily _It_ had slipped beneath his awareness, he thought, and he shivered. _It_ could not stay here. He could not allow it. But was Frodo really strong enough? Even with Mithrandir and Aragorn to keep him safe?

Rubbing his eyes wearily, he went through the glass doors and stopped dead. It drove all thoughts of the One from his mind.

Someone was already there, lying in the water. He could see their head resting on the side, bright gold hair drifted on the water, an arm stretched along the side of the pool. And for a heart-freezing moment of yearning and loss, he thought, no merely _wished, _it was Celebrián. He felt a pang of losing her again. Over the long years, he had grown accustomed to the dull ache just below his ribs where he sometimes thought his heart had been ripped out.

Glorfindel lifted his head and gave his lovely smile. Elrond looked away to hide the disappointment but Glorfindel always knew. He heard the sound of water heaving and then washing the sides of the pool and knew that Glorfindel had pulled himself out of the water, would try to offer him comfort, but he did not want it. It was churlish but there were times he could not help himself. He could easily close these lovely pools to anyone else, but it seemed a crime to not share the luxury. And both Erestor and Glorfindel came here sometimes.

'Forgive me, old friend, it is ...one of those times.'

Glorfindel patted him lightly on the shoulder, wetness on his skin and warmth from the touch. Elrond turned in time to see the hard, lean body, muscles sliding under skin as the warrior wrapped a towel around his waist and turned back to Elrond.

'I know. I should not have startled you.' Glorfindel sat on a wooden bench beneath the rows of towels and robes and stretched out his long legs. His hair was dark gold now and wet and clung to his skin and those eyes that had seen...everything, were fixed on Elrond so he suddenly felt very young, as young as that child of Thranduil. He shook his head and gave a wry smile, and came to sit next to Glorfindel. Drops of water beaded on his skin.

'I thought you were her,' he confessed.

Glorfindel said nothing but rose and fetched an open bottle of wine and two goblets. He sat back down and held out one glass to Elrond and took another for himself. He drank and then gazed out of the open window at the fading sun, the evening emerging slowly over the mountains, stealing across the valley.

'Are you surprised?' he said eventually. 'The Ring is here. It seeks to find the chinks in your armour. _She_ is the chink in your armour.' He drank slowly. 'As she is the chink in all our armour. Your sons...'

'My sons!' Elrond said in a choked voice full of distress. 'What do they do? They seek revenge they say. But they seek their own destruction in self-hatred and remorse. They cannot see it,' he finished uncertainly. That was not his voice speaking surely? Those inner fears had not be said?

Glorfindel was quiet but he slid a sidelong glance to Elrond that confirmed his fears.

'Will you go with him?' Elrond asked. 'You have Power to stand against the Nazgul, Angmar and his acolytes. Against Sauron too if need be.'

There was a silence and Glorfindel pulled his long hair back and squeezed out the water. Then he stood and he was tall and fair and his face was fearless. He looked down at Elrond and to Elrond it seemed for a moment as if he were one of the Ainur who lay his hand gently on Elrond's shoulder.

'Do you think I should?' Glorfindel asked kindly. 'The task falls to you to choose companions who will be suitable for the Quest. You said yourself it must be done in stealth and in secret. Choose those who are secret and stealthy then.' He gave his beautiful smile that was so full of joy, and it was for Elrond, as if he had glimpsed beyond the Veil to the silver shores where there was no grief.

The door banged loudly and a long lean shadow leaped on the marble walls. It was followed by Erestor who gave a wolfish smile and draped his long lean body over the opposite bench. 'You rascals,' he leered breaking the moment. 'What have you been up to without me?'

Elrond merely smiled but Glorfindel huffed uncharacteristically. 'Sometimes, Erestor, your mind is so much in the gutter that you cannot see what is in front of you.' He thrust a glass of wine in the counsellor's hand. 'Have they finished their discussion?'

Erestor snorted. 'They have stopped if that is what you mean. That Galdor can talk! And he says nothing. He is a fool!' he declared and took a long drink. 'Mithrandir smoked all the time and Aragorn is still furious about Gollum. You two sneaked off quick enough,' he added in an exaggerated whine.

'Galdor is the emissary of Cirdan,' Elrond reminded him seriously and Erestor pah'd. Sometimes Elrond wondered that Erestor could be such a skilled diplomat in public and so dismissive and intolerant in private.

'You did not hear him.' Erestor muttered. 'He said it was no great loss that the Woodelves guards had been slain or taken!' He could not keep the outrage from his voice. 'Even Aragorn was shocked.'

Elrond stared at Erestor, surely Galdor could not have said such a thing, and then he sighed, knowing it was just the sort of thing Galdor might have said in the heat of a debate, say argument rather, with Erestor who would have goaded him. 'Whatever he may have said, he is still Cirdan's emissary, and please Erestor, treat him with respect.' Glorfindel looked away. There was great sadness in his eyes and Elrond knew he would have been grieved to hear that the Mirkwood guards had been so brutally attacked. Either slain or taken...it chilled the heart to think what those taken would have endured. And the expression on young Thranduillion's face had been enough.

'You are fiery tonight,' Glorfindel observed with misgiving, disapproval. 'Has young Legolas sparked something in your cold heart?'

'He would merely be a tasty snack,' Erestor responded quickly as he was expected and smacked his lips and Elrond wondered at that. Those who did not know Erestor thought and said many things about him but he never showed the slightest concern what anybody thought. He courted it, invested time in creating this persona; the rumours, the legend even. But Elrond knew that deep within, an old hurt flamed. Erestor was not cold. He burned but it was a slow flame now after so long. Once he had flared and leaped and scorched as much as any other but Elrond knew he had learned patience. So it might well suit him that the Valley thought he had Legolas Thranduillion in his sights.

And if he were honest, it was a temptation to Elrond himself who had never wanted anyone since he met Celebrian, not even in the aftermath of battle. His heart was completely hers. But the Ring, he knew now, distorted things and if he found the courage of the silvans attractive, and he wanted to know more, that was all it was. He thought there was something precious in the Woodelf.

Erestor however had a rather more predatory expression on his face.

'You look thoughtful,' Elrond said casually and Erestor looked up.

'He has shown his mettle, has he not? He has fought under the Shadows of Mirkwood, gone to the Tower itself in pursuit of one of his men, and crossed the Mountains on his own. Is that not enough?' he asked and Glorfindel shook his head in disapproval.

'Erestor, please. For once show restraint. He is a child!'

'He is a Woodelf,' Erestor responded swiftly, too swiftly. 'Why? Are you hungry enough yet yourself, Glorfindel? How long has it been for you?' Elrond raised an eyebrow at that deliberate wounding and wondered that Erestor felt he had to spar with Glorfindel.

'You are Glorfindel the Golden,'Erestor continued and swooped upon Elrond's half drained glass and downed the rest of the wine quickly. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'You could crook your finger and he would come running.' He laughed but there was no bitterness. Erestor's hawkish eyes briefly met Elrond's but there was understanding and something else. 'Why do you resist?' he asked but he meant Glorfindel. 'He is willing and beautiful. You would disappoint him?'

'He is young, younger even than Elrond's children!' Glorfindel always had trouble with that, thought Elrond and Erestor was goading him, pushing him beyond that immense calm and patience. That had never stopped Erestor either.

'Hardly difficult! If that is to be your test you will never lie with anyone again.' Erestor lifted one elegant eyebrow and snagged the open bottle, poured the last of the wine into Elrond's empty glass. 'This is the good stuff,' he said wryly, and then more gently, he turned to Elrond himself. 'And you, Elrond? She would never have wanted you to be so lonely you know. He is lovely and sweet, and a little naive but no innocent. No one need know.'

Elrond recoiled. Too much, tonight at least, thought Elrond. And even though he knew his old companion and friend only wished him well, he could not speak of it, did not want to even be reminded of it. He turned away from them both and busied himself with pouring wine, wiping away the marks left on the table by the open bottle. Wine stains, a perfect ring...

'You and Elrohir are so alike,' Erestor's voice continued softly behind him. He heard Glorfindel remonstrate quietly but Erestor was in one of those moods that took him, where he said everything. 'You both run furiously from it but you cannot escape it. Guilt. It follows. Inexorably.'

'And you would know,' snapped Elrond unforgivably.

'Yes,' Erestor answered mildly. 'So take it from one who knows as well as you.' It took away the sting and the amber eyes caught his, held his gaze softly so he saw the memories, the shared loss and pain, remembered how they had clung together and wept.

His old friend unfolded his long lean body gracefully, for he had always been graceful, thought Elrond, and bowed. But there was no meaning in it, he did it for effect, for show, for the drama of it, and Elrond smiled then.

'Be gentle with him if you pursue him, Erestor.'

Erestor cast him a swift look and lifted an eyebrow ironically. 'He is a Woodelf, Elrond. I do not think he will break.'

tbc

Reviews are always encouraging and a good little prompt to make me write faster.


	10. Chapter 10 Searching the Bruinen

Beta: Wonderful Anarithilen.

Summary: Legolas has arrived in Imladris in time to join the Council of Elrond. He has told his tale of Gollum's escape, during which Naurion, a member of the guard, was captured and killed, and of the slaying of Legolas' childhood friends, Celdir and Anglach. Since he arrived in Imladris, Legolas has taken up with Berensul, a member of Elrond's household, and has sort of met Elrohir. In this chapter, Legolas volunteers to join the Elves that Elrond sends to scout the lands around Rivendell to ensure the Nazgul have gone.

'Elrond is sending Elves, and they will get in touch with the Rangers, and maybe with Thranduil's folk in Mirkwood. And Aragorn has gone with Elrond's sons. We shall have to scour the lands around for many long leagues before any move is made.' Gandalf. FoTR. Chapter 3.

Warning: Violence and brutality in the next three chapters. Slash in this chapter as well as later, undercurrents of repressed desire and violence.

Thank you to Vanwa, sal009, freddie, sapphirethief, Melethen, gginsc, this littelpiggystayedathome, archwriter, Melusine, Dawn (yes, it is. This chapter starts to show how) Azalias, Guest, julsa. I really appreciate that you bothered to let me know that you are enjoying this - thank you.

**Chapter 10: Searching the Bruinen**

Berensul had not come to him until the early hours, knocking lightly on the door. When Legolas opened it he was already disheveled and when Legolas stepped aside to let him in, he snatched a kiss as he passed. He smelt of a woman, thought Legolas surprised. He followed Berensul in and watched as the Imladrian Elf cast himself back on the bed, his long dark hair spreading out over the pillows. His cheeks were flushed.

Legolas was no stranger to the ways of love and cocked his head to one side knowingly, noted that Berensul looked away and would not meet his gaze. Legolas poured a goblet of wine and drank it. He did not pour one for Berensul, not yet.

'It's Elemé,' Berensul said finally, awkwardly. He shrugged and twiddled with a thread on the sheets. 'She seduced me'

Legolas raised his eyebrows at the preposterousness of Berensul's claim and shook his head slightly. He turned then and poured a goblet for Berensul, approached the bed where the Elf sprawled and handed it to him. At the open window, the sheer gauze that veiled them from the outside world fluttered and the smell of snow in the mountains drifted in.

Berensul took the goblet and then looked up at him. He paused for a moment and then smiled wryly. 'She has always pursued me,' he said almost petulantly. In the moonlight, his smooth dark hair gleamed and he looked down so his long lashes lay against his cheek. He sipped the wine Legolas had given him, avoiding his gaze.

Legolas sat on the bed beside him, stroked a hair back from Berensul's face and asked, 'What of her suitor, out in the Wilds?'

Berensul looked sheepish and would not meet his eye so that Legolas guessed. 'There isn't one,' he realised and frowned. 'Why did you...?' He paused and looked away feeling foolish, deceived.

'You were obviously interested in her, you were going to pursue her,' said Berensul looking up at Legolas from beneath his eyelashes in a practised shyness that did not fool Legolas. 'And _I_ wanted you,' he added, unrepentant.

'You could still have had me,' said Legolas a little annoyed. 'I wish you had not lied,' he said turning away from Berensul.

He stood, pulling the sheet from Berensul and wrapping it around his waist for he felt suddenly that he did not want to be naked in front of Berensul. He was less bothered by the fact that Berensul had come from another lover than by the lie itself that she had a suitor.

'I am sorry for it now.' Berensul reached out and caught Legolas' hand, kissed his wrist. 'I did not know you then.' He looked up again at Legolas but this time there was no guile.

'And what of Elemé?' Legolas demanded. 'What does she feel about you leaving her and creeping into my bed?' He did not pull his hand away though and stood, undecided and looking down at Berensul.

'Elemé will not mind. I think she will like it,' Berensul said with a gleam in his green eyes and a flash of white teeth. 'I told you we could all...'

'Enough!' Legolas said and laughed suddenly. 'You are incorrigible. You should live in the Wood.' He thought Berensul lovely and even if he had come from another, still desired him so he knelt and pulled him close, kissing his mouth.

They had taken leave of each other sweetly and as the first pale light of dawn crept over the Mountains, Legolas had washed thoroughly in the sumptuous bathroom, still wondering at the warm water that spurted into the porcelain bowl. Berensul had brought breakfast with him, and after his ablutions Legolas sat and ate the bread, fruit and cheese hungrily. Then he dressed, pulled on his boots, belted his tunic. Lastly he sat and braided his hair and watched Berensul, who was propped up on his elbow with his long dark hair spilling over the white rumpled sheets.

'You are very early,' Berensul said, still soft with sleep. 'No one else will even be about. You will be the first to be ready. '

Legolas scooped up his quiver and bow, slid his knives into their sheaths and checked his belt and boots. Then he touched Berensul lightly in farewell, but it weighed on him that Berensul might feel a little guilty still and Legolas would not be here for much longer.

'You are free to pursue whomsoever you wish,' he reminded Berensul gently.

Berensul had merely blinked at him sleepily and smiled. 'Be safe,' he said and rolled over to sleep. Legolas wondered if Elemé knew that Berensul had come to him after he had been with her, and if she cared.

00o0o

The pale crack of light crept over the mountains later than in the Wood, Legolas thought, leaning his head against the stone pillar where he waited for Glorfindel and his warriors to appear. He even wondered if he had missed everyone for it was past dawn and surely everyone would be up and about now ready to ride out, to make the most of the daylight as they did in the Wood. He had already walked about the grounds, and found sleepy horses in a large, well-kept stable yard. They had whickered softly to him but no one else was about. It seemed that everyone else still slept and he wondered how many inhabitants there were of Imladris.

He sat on the stone wall and swung his legs a little, waiting. Berensul was right, he was far too early. At last he saw the sun climb above the Mountains and the sunlight poured over the House. And into that golden light emerged Glorfindel.

Legolas almost sighed aloud.

The Elf-lord turned and gold shot through his hair and there was such a joy and fearlessness in his face that Legolas felt he had looked beyond the Veil and seen the Far Shore and there was nothing to fear...When Glorfindel smiled at Legolas and raised his hand in greeting, he felt his mouth drop open. He may have even drooled, he thought later with embarrassment.

'You decided to stay? Good. I am glad.' His thoughts were interrupted by Boromir, the son of the Steward of Gondor.

Legolas shook himself free of his hero-worship and smiled easily in welcome, pushing away from the wall to stand with Boromir. 'Your words moved me,' he told the Man and was pleased to see Boromir's gratified expression in return for his honesty. 'And one more day will not inconvenience me at all.'

'I think it will be more than one day,' Boromir replied, looking at the number of Elves assembled.

It seemed many for a simple scout around the immediate area of Imladris and Legolas frowned. There must be over two dozen Elves, some on horses and some not. Elrond was there, dressed as if for hunting, and Aragorn stood with Mithrandir. To Legolas' surprise, one of the Dwarves also joined Aragorn and stood talking with him in a quiet voice. But then the Brethren, the Sons of Elrond arrived, and even amongst such illustrious company, Legolas felt the change in the air, as if a storm was gathering. The air crackled and he felt the hairs on his neck rise but not in fear but instead with anticipation. He could not help but stare. Identical, noble and fair they were, their long black-silk hair loosely braided but where Glorfindel brought joy and courage, a darkness seemed to settle around them and the assembled warriors drew back a little from them as if in fear.

Mithrandir was standing on a nearby terrace, leaning on his staff and watching everything with shrewd blue eyes. Legolas pushed his way through the assembled Elves and hailed him.

The Wizard started slightly and then greeted Legolas cheerfully. 'Ah, there you are, Legolas. Well done for getting here on time. I was worried for a moment that you were going to miss the Council.'

Legolas frowned. 'What made you think...? How did you know...?' And then he shook his head again. It was always best not to enquire too deeply of Wizards, his father always said. His father also said other things about Wizards that were less subtle, like trouble following Mithrandir like carrion follows war. 'It is good to see you, Mithrandir,' he said and pushed past some Elves with a slight bow and apology to join him.

Mithrandir gave a slow smile and then looked at him kindly. 'It is good to see you too, Legolas. I would ask after your father but there is little time right now. We must have a talk you and I when you get back. There is something I need you to do for me.'

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he thought the folk of the Wood had done quite enough but it was not in him really. That was Thranduil speaking and he sighed. 'Of course, Mithrandir.'

Mithrandir patted him on the arm and his blue eyes were grave. 'I am sorry that you lost people in helping me, Legolas.'

Legolas looked away and the pain of his failure was too deep to speak of so instead he said, 'I have news of the Nazgul. Two passed me on the Mountain. I have not been able to tell you this before.'

Mithrandir's kindly face changed then and Legolas thought he glimpsed something harder, brighter. 'Well now. They passed you by, did they? Did they sense you? Smell is their main sense you know.'

'No. I hid from them well.'

'And were you afraid?'

Legolas glanced at the Wizard briefly and then away. 'Of course I was afraid. They are terrifying.'

'But you thought of other things. And kept your fear in check,' observed Mithrandir thoughtfully. 'Well done, Thranduilion. Not many could have done so. Most would have fled.'

Legolas shrugged. 'I did not challenge them as Glorfindel did, or drive them off as Aragorn. It can hardly be said to be a great deed.' He thought of the way he had cowered in the scrubby heather and whortleberries in the mountains and was not proud.

'Well, never mind that now. I am pleased you are here and safe.' The Wizard gave him a quick dismissive smile and turned to make his way towards Elrond leaving Legolas alone on the terrace.

Legolas watched the Wizard, unperturbed by his abruptness; it was one of his charms, as Galion said. Mithrandir leaned towards Elrond now and spoke quietly. The Elf-lord had glanced over at Legolas and there was speculation in his eyes.

Glorfindel was shuffling his warriors about, directing them here or there. Elrond and Mithrandir stood with what was clearly one party, and Erestor stood with what was clearly another. One of the Sons of Elrond stood talking quietly to their father and the other stood separately, staring out over the mountains southwards. Two black horses stood saddled and bridled, packs strapped to their saddles as if for a long journey. In the crisp morning, their breath steamed and they shook their heads and fretted at the silver bits in their mouths. Legolas wondered where they were going for the other horses standing waiting were not so laden.

At last Glorfindel beckoned to Legolas and Boromir, and directed Legolas to the group where Aragorn stood and Boromir to the other. A large grey horse stood patiently beside Aragorn, one back hoof resting. Its eyes were half closed and it was dozing, but its quiet patience hid great strength, thought Legolas. It was not an elven steed such as the black horses Elrohir and Elladan.

With him was the younger Dwarf who had spoken to Elemé in the Halls of Fire. Legolas nodded to him briefly, looking into the earth-brown eyes that narrowed at his greeting.

'Legolas Th...'

'I know who you are,' said the Dwarf curtly, and although he did not turn away he eyed Legolas distrustfully.

'...At your service,' Legolas finished in spite of the Dwarf's rudeness, for his father would expect him to show such courtesy to a neighbour of the Wood. Just in case.

The Dwarf did not return his greeting but turned his head and greeted Boromir more warmly so Legolas wondered if he had done the right thing in staying. Aragorn had not spoken to him either.

Boromir gave him a sideways look and touched his arm briefly. 'Do not regret your kindness,' he said, drawing Legolas quietly away. 'I have found that sometimes the greatest antagonism leads to the greatest friendship.'

Legolas gave him a doubtful look and was about to reply when he felt a gaze fall upon him like a weight. He looked around to find the Sons of Elrond stood now with Aragorn and both were watching him intently. He drew himself up and smoothed his hand over his braids as if reassuring himself all was in order, for these warriors were magnificent, and though he knew his worth he could hardly believe he was to be riding out with Glorfindel, Elrond, and the Sons of Thunder. He could not stop a wide grin that spread over his face. But it was only Boromir who returned it.

He shrugged and gave Boromir a rueful smile as the Man joined the other group and they began to move away, going North, taking the road that Legolas himself had taken when he first arrived in the Valley.

His own troop set off soon after. The sky was sharp blue, and the air frost laden. Leaves that were turning from gold and red to brown now, drifted on the breeze. They crossed the bridge and followed the banks of the Bruinen until they reached a fork in the road and at a sign from Glorfindel, the troop split again with Elrond and Mithrandir leading one group. Legolas was left with Glorfindel, Aragorn, the Dwarf, the Sons of Elrond, and two Imladrian warriors, Rhawion and Amron.

The Sons of Elrond walked alongside their horses with Glorfindel and did not even look at Legolas. He remembered the sense of Power and energy when he first set eyes upon the Son of Elrond and was disappointed. Perhaps he had been simply overwhelmed by the events he had heard spoken of, or that he was simply tired and more susceptible to whatever Power there was in the House. Whatever it was, clearly it had been in his mind alone and the impression he had made upon the Son of Thunder had been negligible and he was not deemed worthy of notice. His mouth twisted wryly and he thought of home. Perhaps Imladris was not the great adventure he thought it would be after all.

0o0o0

The River Bruinen swept through the narrow gorge, its water white-foamed as it surged over rocks away to the right of them, and Legolas thought it deserved its name, Loud-water. Ahead of him, the Dwarf, Gimli, walked with Aragorn and the two were deep in conversation so that Legolas wondered what they spoke of. He himself walked slightly apart, between the two Imladrian warriors, Amron and Rhawion, and Glorfindel who was behind him with the Sons of Elrond. He could, if he wanted, hear what any of them were saying but he had never eavesdropped and did not intend to start now, whatever the temptation. But the Dwarf clinked slightly as he walked and Legolas guessed he had a small armoury beneath that cloak, much as Legolas had concealed a number of weapons about his own person. He was quite sure that the other Elves in the party were similarly attired. Instead he listened to the forests that climbed out of the Valley and up the shoulders of the towering mountains.

In the late Autumn morning, beech trees clustered at the edges of the gorge and silver birches clung to impossible crannies in the cliffs. He smiled to see their tenacious hold on life and turned instinctively to the Elves to point out one sapling clinging to an impossible cranny in the cliffs but his joyful exclamation was met with a baffled stare from Rhawion and amusement from Amron, so he shrugged and from the on kept his delight to himself. He found his feet took him off the road and he wanted to let his feet sink into the deep moss that covered the ground, and the rocks like a deep carpet.

He spoke a little but listened more, for Gimli and Aragorn seemed well acquainted now and Aragorn described the distant lands of Rohan, of Umbar and the harbours of Dol Amroth. And when he spoke of the Sea, Legolas found something shifted in him and he thought he would like to travel further afield.

Glorfindel had instructed that everyone speak Westron, in respect to Gimli. And in truth Legolas sometimes found the heavy Imladrian accent difficult to follow; it seemed more clipped and sharper than his own lilting Silvan dialect although it was all Sindarin. They used different words sometimes as well, ones he did not know and so the common tongue was a fair compromise.

He had recovered a little from the awe with which he viewed the company he walked in and he tried to keep his hero-worship under his cloak as it were, for the two Imladrian guards had regarded him with faint amusement until he realised that he was gawping and closed his mouth, giving them a wry smile and shrugging. One of them at least had smiled back in understanding.

They had quickly made their way through the gorge and to the Ford where the Nazgul had been swept away by the river. Even now it seemed the River was still turbulent and deep. Now they paused and Glorfindel and Aragorn went to look for any tracks of horses on this side of the river, for even though the Nazgul were wraiths and would leave no tracks, the horses were not.

Legolas turned and scanned the river, his eye catching far down the banks, a tattered black cloth, he thought, in the river. He leaned out a little over the bank and squinted against the fading sun. The water moved and the black rags spread out in the current and he realised it was not cloth but hair...the tail of a black horse, and now he saw the bloated carcass was caught in branches of a fallen tree and what he thought was a rock wet from the river was the body of one of the Nazgul's steeds. He let his senses stretch out and listened, felt...but there was nothing. He called to the group waiting on the banks of the river and ran lightly down the bank to the long shore, and picked his way across to the carcass.

It stank, that oily stink of death that coats the back of the throat, and the eye sockets were already picked out by carrion. The black hide had been torn open and red flesh, white bone showed beneath. But worse was the taint of the Nazgul. The air around it felt strange, dislocated, like he was looking into a tunnel or into a pool where the world was reflected and everything was sepia and strangely distorted. His fingertips prickled slightly but it was not because the Nazgul were here, but instead because they had been.

He returned and by that time, both Glorfindel and Aragorn had joined the group.

'One of the Nazgul's beasts is caught in that fallen tree, my lord,' he told them, pulling himself back up to the road.

Glorfindel turned and narrowed his eyes and followed where Legolas pointed. He nodded. 'Was there any other sign of Nazgul?'

'No, my lord. Nothing.'

Glorfindel nodded. 'There is nothing on the shore either. We must push that body out into the river. It will simply rot and taint everything in this area if left there. Legolas and Gimli, will you set about that task. Aragorn, go with them and search for other tracks while you are there. See if there is anything else left. None of you touch anything. Use sticks to push it away.'

Legolas' heart sank and when he glanced up at the Dwarf, he looked no happier than Legolas.

Glorfindel turned to the Sons of Elrond. 'Ride back up along the other bank and see what you find. Join us at _Luin-Aglar_. We will set camp there. The water will be clean there and the camp safe.' The Brethren nodded in unison and whirled their horses away. Sable cloaks billowed behind them and the fading sunlight caught on the silver bits and runes that curled on their sheaths.

Legolas led Gimli back down to where he had seen the dead horse while Aragorn left his patient grey horse by the ford and walked further downriver. It was an unpleasant job but the two of them waded knee-deep into the icy river without complaint. It was bitter cold and the current was strong enough to pull at Legolas. At one point his foot slipped and he would have plunged in had he not caught his hand on an overhanging branch. The roar of the river as it swept through the gorge drowned their voices and Legolas found himself shouting to the Dwarf to be heard, but when the Dwarf spoke it seemed his deep voice was beneath the sound and carried better than either Man or Elf.

'Raise it with that branch,' the Dwarf said and Legolas took hold of the other end of it and together they levered the body free so it was suddenly taken by the current and then it whirled and was turned by the rushing river. It was caught against rocks for a moment and then swept away.

Legolas did not speak but Gimli said quietly in his voice that sounded like the gravel of the river and the deep places of the Mountain, 'It is a travesty of Nature to see a beast so enslaved to evil. I wonder what Sauron has done to make a mortal beast carry a Ringwraith?'

Legolas glanced down in surprise, for he thought Dwarves cared nothing for their animals. The Dwarf must have seen it for he said then in a voice that was angry and defensive, 'You think us stone, Master Elf, and we think you dull-witted. Who is to say we are both wrong?'

Legolas snapped. 'Youarewrong in one thing at least,' he said quickly. 'We think you dull-witted as well.' He turned and leaped lightly up onto the riverbank to come face to face with Aragorn, ignoring Gimli's spluttered rejoinder.

The Man did not seem surprised by Legolas' sudden appearance, nor by the frozen silence between the two of them for the rest of the time they searched the banks. Legolas felt the deep eyes of the Dwarf boring into his back but did not care. A few days at most would be needed for this task, then he would be done with his duty and back on the trail home. He was quite resolved that he would travel alone rather than with any Dwarves.

At last Aragorn called for them to make their way to join Glorfindel. Legolas looked at the water that poured over the Ford and thought he would be thigh-deep in crossing and the current strong.

Aragorn paused before it and though he turned to all of them, it was clear it was Gimli with whom he was concerned. 'Can we all cross safely or do we wait until the river has gone down?'

'If you mean me, Aragorn, say so.' The Dwarf hefted his axe as if he might use it to cross the river.

'Peace, Gimli.' Aragorn raised his hand to pacify the Dwarf but Legolas thought that such an unreasonable person as their dwarvish companion would not be so easily swayed. 'I did not say so, but if you feel it is more likely that _you_ cannot cross, there is no shame in that.'

'Pah! As if I mind getting a bit wet!'

Legolas suppressed a sigh- surely the Dwarf could see it would come up over his waist at least. And that great axe would be no help at all.

'Perhaps you should ride Roheryn,' Aragorn suggested. 'My horse,' he added.

Legolas glanced at the placid beast. It stood resting its hoof, as it did whenever Legolas looked at it. It seemed at ease, resting and he wondered if it ever did more than plod.

'My own two feet were enough to get me here and my own two feet will see me home.'

Legolas could have said any number of sharp things but bit his tongue instead and rolled his eyes.

Aragorn brought Roheryn forwards and certainly the heavy patient horse was not going to have any trouble crossing, Legolas thought. It snorted as if it shared Legolas' irritation.

'Legolas, can you lead Roheryn. Gimli and I will stand on the other side of him so his body shields us from the heaviest of the flood,' said Aragorn. 'I intend to hold onto the stirrup. Gimli for I do not wish a dousing. You may do as you wish.'

Legolas nodded and quickly took the reins from the Man. He rested his hand on the horse's nose and breathed through his nose so his breath ghosted over the horse's nostrils. He caught a slight amused patience from the beast and looked a second time. Intelligent brown eyes gazed back at him with unending patience and then it heaved a deep sigh, as horses do when they are a little bored. Legolas smiled and thought they might do well to simply let the horse lead them.

He entered the cold water. It was melt water from the glaciers and snow on the Misty Mountains, white-green like ice. It was cold enough to take his breath and for the horse to shy once when it stepped into it, but it did not as first Aragorn, then Gimli, followed.

When Aragorn entered the icy water, he gasped and when it reached his thighs, he shouted a curse and Gimli laughed. But Legolas watched Gimli for he simply strode in, crossed and sank first to his waist, then to his chest. He raised the great axe above his head and did not stop, his face did not flicker with discomfort and Legolas found a begrudging respect for the Dwarf at that moment. When they emerged on the other side, the Dwarf simply sat on the scrubby grass and pulled off his boots, emptied them of water and pulled them back on. Legolas did the same but Aragorn flapped his arms and ran about for a moment while Legolas watched with amusement. Thranduil had friendship with Dale at least so Legolas was used to Men, knew something of their ways and their physical weakness, but he remembered Bard well, had liked him, and fought alongside him, knew his sons and daughters. Ah, his daughters.

He was caught in elven memories and had a smile upon his lips when they arrived at the place Glorfindel had called _Luin-Aglar_. It was a deep, fast-flowing tributary that fed into the Bruinen. Its cold cloudy waters were unusually green-blue, almost turquoise and it plunged through a little gorge so cliffs lined the river. But further down towards it confluence with the Bruinen it flowed into a deep pool that was still and quiet before the water rushed beyond and into the Bruinen. Here a pebbly beach had formed at the foot of the cliffs of the gorge giving way to lush grassy banks and here Glorfindel had made his camp.

The two Imladrian guards already sat companionably around a small fire, breaking open some provisions. One of them, Amron, smiled brightly when Legolas approached and held up a pack of leaf-wrapped lembas.

Legolas made a face and shook his head. 'Thank you but I have had more than enough of lembas in the last few weeks.' He wondered if Ceredir the cook had as famously a heavy hand as Galion, but he did not ask.

'Ah. Then you might prefer bread and cheese, dried meat perhaps? Here. We have enough rations for everyone.' He handed Legolas a carefully wrapped wedge of cheese and a half loaf of bread that must have been made that morning.

Legolas thanked him and sat down with them. Both Elves he found to be talkative and well disposed. He was ravenous and ate what he had been given quickly, then looked about to see what needed to be done. Kindling and firewood needed collecting and he set off with both the Imladrians. As they collected dry timber from the surrounding woodlands, he asked them what their normal patrol was and their duties and was surprised to learn how light it seemed. Except when they ventured with the Sons of Elrond, when they hunted Orcs deliberately. But both were strangely reticent about that and fell silent when Glorfindel joined them to talk briefly about the plan for the rest of the day, which was to base themselves here and to thoroughly search this area. The following day they would search the next section of the river and press on into The Angle where Aragorn's folk dwelt and whose help they would enlist in their search.

The Brethren had not yet returned and Glorfindel was untroubled by their absence.

o0o0

Three more black horses were found later that day as well as a tattered black robe that was curled over an overhanging branch like a black snake. Legolas had sensed that strange dislocation in the air, and the trees felt strange, as if some dread thing had brushed its hand lightly over the leaves, touched the grass, drifted over the earth. He stopped and lifted his head to stare around him.

'What do you feel?' He turned to see that Glorfindel was watching him and he felt a keenness in that glance, like he looked beneath the skin, saw him as he truly was.

'The air is different...It always is when they have passed.' Legolas frowned, wondering that none of the other Elves seemed able to sense it. 'It feels greasy, and it's like looking through a tunnel of glass.' Glorfindel came and stood very close to Legolas. 'You have felt this often?'

'Yes. In the South of the Wood. But more recently they have come closer to us and they led the attack on our folk when Gollum escaped.'

Aragorn came and stood with them then. 'I have heard it described so before,' he said. 'I have heard Elrohir say that there is a sense of otherworldliness...A strange smell.'

'The earth remembers their unhallowed feet and the air their cold, black breath,' he said seriously and then remembered to whom he spoke and blushed. 'I am sorry my lord. I know you know this. You defeated the Witchking of Angmar and drove them off single handed- all Nine.' He bit his lip hearing himself gush embarrassingly.

He saw Amron and Rhawion exchange an amused glance and Glorfindel shook his head. 'At the Bridge, they departed only because they knew I did not have that which they seek,' he said. 'Even I cannot defeat them, Legolas. The Witchking cannot be defeated by man. And the other Nazgul were merely unhorsed and uncloaked, becoming the wraiths that they really are. They do not need a form to invoke fear.'

He turned and looked about him. The woods were quiet but in this space where the black robe had been found, not an insect stirred and the leaves seemed to draw back from where it rested. Legolas could almost see where the Nazgul had passed by and he realised the tiny hairs on his neck and down his spine were raised. He looked away, remembering the intense cold that had crept over him on the Mountains and the lingering smell of an empty tomb. His fingertips tingled but it was a distant memory. They were gone.

0o0o

They had found nothing, thought Elrohir angrily. Not even a hoof-print or a tattered black robe. Nothing. And so as night fell, they returned to join Glorfindel and his small band.

He had pulled off his cloak and tied it to his saddle so it would not slow him down and now he leaned low over Barakhir's neck to urge him ever faster, heard Elladan close, caught the sight of his brother, long hair streamed in the wind, tangled with starlight, tangled with starlight. He felt Barakhir's muscles stretch and his long legs pull, long black mane whipped back as they plunged through the night.

No, they had not found the Nazgul, though his blood roared for it, thundered with need for an encounter, for the battle and blood. He felt himself burgeon and fill with lust, for battle, for blood and knew he needed to spend himself in slaughter, stand deep in blood and gore, wash the stains of his terrible sin from his hands in blood.

He felt his dark sword hiss at his closeness to the Nazgul. For they had been close, had attacked his home, and he had not been there, had missed them by days. His blood and bones called for revenge and a thrill ran through him; Elladan was by his side, Aícanaro in his sheath, Barakhir beneath him, Glorfindel ahead. Invincible, he thought himself, knew himself to be. For there was something that slid between his thoughts...a darkness that he sent scurrying back to crouch in the deep places of his heart. Ignored. The Nazgul would not touch him...they were afraid.

Two black horses, black-clad riders on the silvered road, breath frosting under the stars, and the air surging around them. Starlight caught in the long manes of their horses, in their hair, mercurial, fluid, silken, caught on the silver bits and stirrups, on the mithril runes etched onto the sheaths of their swords. Hooves pounded the road, thundered over the grass, leaped the fords and water sprayed up as they passed like the wind under the hard bright stars. They tore down the old road and drew close to the ridge above _Luin-Aglar._

Out of the darkness came a voice, a light voice that he did not recognise, an unfamiliar accent, softer, lengthening the vowels and softening the consonants. 'Hold, Elrondion.' It lilted out of the darkness like some strange call and for a moment he felt a sense of eerie dislocation and in the darkness, Elrohir thought he could see a faint brightness, that seemed edged with green-gold like sunlight through spring leaves.

Barakhir skidded to a halt, threw up his head and pranced, turned in a tight circle around the intruder. Dark Aícanaro slid singing from his sheath and the blade glimmered in Elrohir's fist.

Elladan who drew up alongside, his black horse, Baragur, breathing hard. 'You are out of condition, brother,' Elladan laughed softly and swung easily from his horse. Elrohir was yet mounted and Barakhir circled, picking up his rider's unease, his tension, unsettled excitement that he could not quite account for. 'Why are you drawn?' asked Elladan, his lovely face suddenly concerned. 'Is that not Legolas?'

The bright voice came back. 'Yes my lords. Our camp is below.'

Already Elladan had dismounted and was slackening Baragur's girth. Yet Elrohir hesitated.

He knew who Legolas was, had observed the Mirkwood Elf on the road, could not help looking at him. No one could; he drew the eye. So when Elrohir had passed him on the stairs the day before, he had turned to look, with a strange sense of foresight, and green-gold light shimmered in the air as he passed. And then he had seen him that same night in the gardens, clearly in a tryst with Berensul.

Elrohir's lip curled in contempt. More dangerous, less wise indeed; the son of Thranduil was clearly anxious to bolster the wild and promiscuous reputation of the Woodelves in every way he could.

He felt Barakhir's restlessness as he tossed his head and lipped the silver bit in his mouth, but Elrohir was still staring, thinking of that bright, fearless face flushed in passion, lips parted, long green eyes half closed in ecstasy, and as before, he saw gold and black coiled together, black hair, raven-silk, swirling through the gold like coloured inks. Almost he gasped then, almost he reached out. Instead a dark lust uncoiled in his belly, raised its head and its tongue flickered over its lips at the loveliness before him; begging to be taken, begging to be pounded hard, to be...he shuddered...

'My lord?' Legolas looked up at him in concern and Elrohir almost snarled. A breeze lifted the Mirkwood Elf's long pale gold hair and unbearably, pain lanced through Elrohir.

...and too late, the image of cornsilk hair, feverish blue eyes staring up, unrecognising and the whispered, hateful obscenities...fingernails that tore at his loathsome face... Horror seized him then and he squeezed closed his eyes and clenched his fist. Bile flooded his mouth and he could not bear it.

He was aware of Elladan looking at him and gentle concern in his eyes. A hand lay gently on his arm and cool blue suffused his tormented thoughts, soothed him. 'Come brother. There is nothing here but the phantasms of your mind, your dreams.' It was but a whisper and the gentle hand soothed him so he gritted his teeth and slid from his horse. He kept his back to Legolas and shook off Elladan.

The Mirkwood Elf looked away as if an idol had fallen before him. And it probably had, thought Elrohir, knowing well his reputation amongst younger warriors. He did not care. He had never asked for it. His reputation was based on vengeance for his mother's torment. It had frozen him like the Helcaraxë and the Mirkwood Elf would do well to keep clear of him.

tbc

Next chapter already written apart from a few tweaks. Reviews are VERY welcome and motivate me hugely to get things posted more quickly. Even just a one liner saying you're enjoying it.


	11. Chapter 11 Gimli's Boots

Particular thanks to Anarithilen for working hard with me on the last bit. And to the lovely Mienpies who has given me two gorgeous pictures of Legolas, one at the end of the chapter Imladris and this one which I have posted on esteliel's, you have to google the following to get there: .de as it never shows up here, but which could just as easily go with any of the chapters, maybe its Legolas with Berensul, maybe it's Legolas at the end of this chapter after Gimli has gone to sleep.

Special thanks to to reviwers- it keeps me writing. Vanwa, Dimaranien, IsaDa, Raisinet, Guest, Debbie W, Thislittelpiggy, singvogel, SapphireThief, aRedBaroness, gginsc, Dawn (you never know- it's v hard to keep them apart!), iionly, melethen, melusine, freddie, karush (see above- VERY difficult- you'll like this chapter I think) and my fab Anar.

WARNINGS - this chapter. Violence and cruelty.

**Chapter 11: Gimli's boots**

Next morning, with their breath curling in the cold frost morning, Glorfindel despatched Legolas and Rhawion to scout eastwards, Aragorn and Elrohir to go south, and Gimli and Elladan to go further along the river bank. He and Amron searched the hills around the camp. He sent the Brethren west on their fast black horses, along the old road towards the Last Bridge.

It was early afternoon when Rhawion and Legolas stumbled across the Orcs.

They had been picking their way along the riverbank when they heard a shout, inhuman, harsh. Both froze and carefully melted back into the bushes that crowded to the edge of the river. Legolas gestured that he would go further along the river bank and see if he could spy anything and Rhawion was to wait and if he did not return to get the news to Glorfindel.

Legolas drew his hood over his bright hair and crept stealthily, silently along the shore, just beneath the green bushes and overhanging trees until he drew level with the noise. He guessed about twenty Orcs from the sounds but he lay on his belly and slowly crawled and wriggled forwards, edging forwards a bit at a time towards the camp.

He didn't see the feet until he was nose to toe. And froze. Closed his eyes so the gleam of them was hidden and dropped his head slightly so there were no features. He trusted his cloak would hide him but his heart was hammering in his chest and he slowed his breathing so the Orc would not hear him.

He lay still and silent for what felt like hours before a shout from away to his left drew the sentry away. Silently he slid from tree to tree and kept to the shadows. But when he returned to where he left Rhawion he found the Imladrian gone and he knew he had taken too long and the other Elf thought him taken.

He did not catch up with Rhawion for he dared not travel openly but kept to the shadows, the trees where he could, miles and miles until he was sure he was far from the Orc camp and there were no sentries, no patrols and then he ran, swiftly, along the river back to camp.

When he clambered down into the gorge and into the camp he found Glorfindel arming himself, strapping on his great sword and the Sons of Elrond mounted and ready to ride.

'Legolas! Right glad I am to see you safe.' Glorfindel strode over to greet Legolas, threw his arm over Legolas' shoulder and a look of intense relief on his fair face.

Rhawion clasped his arm and said, 'Glad I am that you were not taken. I thought...'

'A sentry came to stand right before me and I had to wait until he moved,' Legolas said in explanation. His face was flushed with excitement and he felt the beginning of the surge of energy he got before a battle. And Glorfindel's relief at his appearance was more than gratifying.

Rhawion had already told Glorfindel what he could and now the Elf lord turned to Legolas. He listened carefully, his face was very still; there were those who might have said he could have been carved from alabaster, or marble, thought Legolas - but stone was too cold and the life and joy in Glorfindel's beautiful face and eyes was so vital and warm.

'There are about thirty, perhaps forty Orcs, my lord. They are well armed and mustering. They have no prisoners that I could see.' He looked towards Rhawion for confirmation and the other Elf nodded briefly. 'They have a fire lit and have made light shelters beneath the deep undergrowth and trees. They seem to be settled there at least for the night. They have guards posted on four sides but nothing above.' He grinned expectantly. 'They are completely unaware of any danger from above.'

Glorfindel was smiling slightly and Amron snorted this time aloud.

'You think the birds will attack them?' Rhawion asked derisively.

'No, you think to attack them from the trees,' Glorfindel answered for him smiling. He moved off, waving and calling over the sons of Elrond.

Legolas leaned towards Rhawion, calculating what would goad the Imladrian to a wager. 'Are the Noldor too heavy and fat to climb?' he said with a glitter in his eyes.

Rhawion gave a shout of laughter and said, 'I will wager you I am quicker and take out more Orcs than you!'

Already Legolas was pulling out two thin knives from his belt and flicked them both in the air so they turned and turned and glinted nicely in the weak sun. He caught them both in one hand. 'I will wager these two for that nice hunting knife you have so carefully sheathed in your boot. It will ease me to know that it will not stick you when you fall over next.' His white teeth gleamed.

'And I will add to your wager,' Rhawion said eagerly. 'For I have seen Amron in battle. His sword will fell more than your bow.'

'I am hurt, Rhawion,' Legolas returned quickly, 'but will accept your wager. What do you lay?'

'Gold coin,' said Rhawion, digging into his tunic.

'It will please me to know I have liberated you from being so weighed down.'

'Master Gimli, perhaps you would be so good as to witness the wager?' called Rhawion, for it would not do to ask Glorfindel.

Gimli flashed a grin then and said, 'I will wager too that Glorfindel beats you all. This.' He pulled something from his own belt. A small wheel it looked like but at a press of his finger, tiny spikes shot out.

Legolas stared at it covetously. 'A roulette! I will do much to win that from you, dwarvish make too. What would you have?'

Gimli glanced up at him and considered. Then he said slowly, 'I would have you polish my boots.'

Legolas baulked for a moment. 'Polish your boots?' He was sure this would not be the wager had it been Amron or Rhawion.

'Yes, they are a mite mucky and will perish.'

Legolas thought for a moment for a quiet had descended on the other two Elves and they watched him closely. Legolas was no fool, he knew this might well be considered humiliation if he were beaten and had to polish to Dwarf's boots. But, he reasoned, only if he allowed it to be a humiliation. It was not as if polishing boots were a hardship, he decided. And he looked over at Glorfindel who feigned ignorance of what was taking place...Beating Glorfindel though? He did not think he could.

'So I polish your boots if you win or I get this roulette if I win?'

'Well if you do not think you can beat him, then do not take up the wager,' said the Dwarf and let the roulette flip between his fingers.

'I do not think I can beat him,' said Legolas slowly, wondering how much the Dwarf really wanted him to polish his boots.

Gimli narrowed his eyes calculating. 'If there were two roulettes? Is that tempting enough?'

'I do not think I can beat my lord Glorfindel,' Legolas repeated and there was a gleam in his eyes and then he said, 'but I can easily beat you, Master Gimli Gloinsson.'

The Dwarf's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. 'If you think you can, then you will not swerve from this little wager.'

'Done,' Legolas spat on his hand and held it out to shake. Gimli did likewise for it was an Esgaroth custom they both knew. Rhawion looked horrified and Amron raised his eyebrows.

'You will lose that bet,' came a warning voice but it was unclear to whom it was directed. Legolas turned to see Aragorn grinning at them both from where he sat on the ground whetting his great sword.

'He can take two out at a time with that axe,' said Aragorn quietly as he stood and fastened the sword-belt round his waist.

Legolas flashed a smile. 'There are only forty Orcs between the eight of us. I will shoot five in the first rush. He must really think I will polish his boots,' he said lifting an eyebrow and he scooped up his quiver and quickly ran a hand over the tops counting.

'He is very confident,' Aragorn looked at him sideways and loosed his sword. 'And his boots are very dirty.'

'Then let us hope I win.' Legolas grinned and shoved his quiver over his shoulder and fastened the straps, glad that the ice had broken with Aragorn. Aragorn laughed and followed him then to where Glorfindel stood waiting.

There was an air of expectancy and excitement as Glorfindel gave his orders.

Legolas and Amron were to skirt around to the far side of the encampment and to attack the rear once the Orcs were engaged, throw them into confusion and make them think there were many more Elves than there were but primarily to stop any Orcs escaping that way. Gimli gave a grin when he heard that Legolas was not in the frontal attack. Legolas said nothing. The sons of Elrond and Aragorn were to charge on their horses through the camp and Glorfindel and Rhawion to follow in their wake. There was of course the element of surprise in the cavalry attack and Glorfindel wanted as much noise and chaos to ensue as possible so the Orcs never had time to regroup and certainly never had time to work out how few of them there were.

0o0o

Legolas and Amron quickly made their way along the river bank and around the camp's location until they guessed they were south of the camp. Then they moved stealthily between the trees, nevertheless making their way swiftly to the edge of the camp.

The two Elves were quick to smell and hear Orcs approach. Legolas immediately sprang up onto a branch and pressed himself against the tree trunk as the pounding of their feet drew closer. He looked down to see Amron hiding behind a tree and gasped.

'Quick! Up here!' he hissed, leaning down and reaching for Amron's hand.

He hauled Amron up beside him, wondering that the Imladrian was so heavy and cumbersome. Amron clutched the tree trunk, breathing hard so Legolas quietly put his finger to his lips and they saw the first Orc come into view. Its lumbering, crooked gait was caused by a recent injury, Legolas realised. So they must have already attacked a settlement or travellers. Suddenly Amron's foot slipped and he lurched forwards. Legolas shot out his hand to grasp Amron's arm and steady him. His heart pounded in his chest and for the first time ever he wondered if they should have stayed on the ground and simply run. He pushed Amron back against the tree trunk and pulled his hood over his head and they held still, and watched the group pass beneath them.

The first limping Orc was followed by a second Orc, then third passed directly below the tree in which they hid. One spoke in its coarse growling tongue and while Amron covered his ears, Legolas tried to understand what it said. He could only pick out two or three words, _srinkh_, he thought meant 'gathering' and thought they must be speaking of the Orc encampment. But then he heard one laugh and say something about _Uliima-zagh_ which he knew was what they called the High Pass over the Hithaeglir. He remembered the old bones he had seen on his trail and wondered briefly if he should return home a different way.

'Should we not shoot them now?' Amron whispered but Legolas shook his head.

'We could not guarantee one of them will not shout and alert the camp,' he said softly. He paused and then said, 'We could follow them, wait until they are far enough away to not alert the main group. We do not want them coming back.' He looked at Amron clinging to the tree trunk and chewed his lip for a moment. 'Perhaps I should go.'

Amron nodded and Legolas slid silently from branch to branch behind the Orcs so there was barely a ripple of leaf, barely a branch bent under his supple weight.

One looked up at what it thought was the swish of a branch until a green-fletched arrow went through his eye and he fell instantly without a sound. When the next fell, the other turned and one let out a hoarse shout that was stopped short with an arrow in the throat. Legolas leaped down from the branches and Amron joined him to kick at the heavy carcasses until they each rolled away from the path and into a shallow ditch nearby. Legolas slid his bow back over his shoulder and shoved a few fallen branches and leaves over them to hide them as much as possible in case other Orcs came along the path and were alerted to the presence of Elves.

He gave Amron a wide smile and bowed slightly. 'I hope you are counting, Amron.' The Imladrian gave him a wry look and held up three fingers for the number of Orcs, and then folded down two and left his middle finger up. Legolas laughed softly.

They stayed in the trees now and crept closer to the Orc encampment and this time Legolas could see the camp better. There was a fire-pit in the centre and the remains of something charred and black was on a spit. He did not look too closely. There were about thirty Orcs gathered mainly in small groups. They were all heavily armed as before but those supposedly on guard had been drawn away from the perimeter by something going on to one side and Legolas craned his neck to see.

Two big Orcs were squaring up to each other and growling, snarling, shouting at each other whilst others goaded them on.

He gave Amron a quick look and saw the anticipation in the other's eyes. They had only to wait for Glorfindel's signal.

It seemed an age in coming but Legolas reminded himself that they had a Man and a Dwarf with them and it must be expected that they would be slower. Amron fidgeted and suddenly his foot slipped. His flailing hand grabbed a weaker branch. There was a crack and the branch split from the tree. Like lightning, Legolas grabbed Amron and held him steady. They froze. Barely breathed.

An Orc turned its head in their direction. It stared into the trees for a moment. Legolas kept his hand silently on Amron's shoulder.

And then the Orc turned back.

There was a bloodthirsty shout from the two big Orcs fighting on the far side of the camp and a number of others closed in a little.

Below Legolas and near the perimeter of the camp, a smaller group of five Orcs crouched or knelt. The one closest to Legolas lifted its heads now and looked in the direction of the fight. Legolas silently urged it to go and look but it lifted its snout and snuffed the air. Then it turned its head towards the tree where Legolas and Amron were and its small eyes squinted into the afternoon sun. One of its companions growled something and it lifted itself up onto its haunches and stood looking into the trees. Legolas saw its hand go to its side and finger the heavy saber it carried. It took a step towards them and he felt Amron silently slide his own bow from his shoulder and nock an arrow. Legolas already had one trained on the Orc and silently begged Glorfindel to give the call.

The air was tense. Even the trees seemed to still and there was no wind at all.

All was silent save the noise of the Orc fight on the other side of the camp.

The Orc that stood looking and snuffling the air had something clutched in its hand, something that fluttered slightly. It was blue, like a child's dress. Legolas blinked and swallowed, resisted looking again at the fire-pit and the blackened carcass on the spit. He heard Amron choke back something as he too recognised what it was. Legolas clenched his teeth and slowly drew back his bow, sighting along it at the Orc.

There was a flash of something on the other side of the encampment, something silver that caught in the weak winter sun.

One of the Orcs in the small group below Legolas and Amron lifted its head and looked. It opened its mouth and there was a swoosh and both it and the Orc looking towards Legolas slowly toppled to the ground. The other three were on their feet now but three more arrows were in their necks or throats before they could cry out and then there was a tremendous battle cry and black horses burst from the trees and charged through the camp, straight for the bunched group of Orcs, flashing silver and blood. Orcs scrambled out of the way, scrabbled for sabers, for weapons, shouting and screaming as swords fell and arrows whooshed into the camp. Legolas' bow was singing and he leapt from one tree to the next, ever closer to the main group which was breaking into smaller groups, drawing sabers, scrambling in the dirt for weapons so easily discarded only moments before.

Arrows swooshed and plunged into one Orc after another. Legolas was aware of Amron shooting too and that Glorfindel and Gimli had joined the affray. Clanging swords and battle cries filled the air, shouting and screaming as one Orc fell after another.

There was a shout from nearby and Legolas turned to see three Orcs pounding towards him for they had realised they were being shot at from the trees. He glanced at Amron whose face was focused and deadly calm. He turned his head back to the oncoming Orcs, aimed and missed and cursed and aimed again as one fell. But the Orcs had formed into groups now and the element of surprise was gone; Orc archers were positioned now behind sacks and carcasses and were aiming at the Sons of Elrond and Aragorn, and Orcs were converging on Glorfindel. The Elf-lord was beaten down and on one knee wrestling his sword against one of the big Orcs.

Below Legolas there was snarling and the pounding of feet as Orcs charged towards the trees they were in. He loosed an arrow quickly and the big Orc fighting Glorfindel fell. But suddenly there were Orcs leaping up at him from the ground and one climbing towards him, knife between its sharp teeth.

He glanced at Amron and pushed his bow into his quiver and in the same movement drew his twin blades, leaping into the fray. Three Orcs converged on him immediately. Smoothly and barely breaking his stride, he swiped his blades across in front of him and then out. Two ugly heads fell to the ground and the other stopped grinning long enough for Legolas to pivot on one foot and bring one singing blade round to slice through its neck, the other slashed its belly open so entrails slipped out hot and steaming. Blood spattered over his face and tunic and soaked his hands. He glanced behind to see Amron struggling with the Orc that had climbed into the tree and began to reach for an arrow when there was a spray of blood and the Orc toppled slowly out of the tree. Legolas did not stop to salute Amron but bounded into the fight.

Aragorn was off his horse now and struggled with a huge Orc that was pounding his sword over and over until Legolas though this arm might break. But the Dwarf was there and swung his mighty axe clean through the Orc and it fell to its knees. Aragorn barely paused but turned to hack at another Orc and the Dwarf finished it off.

Legolas was aware of Glorfindel shining, sweeping his blade through the ranks of Orcs and then he saw the Sons of Elrond; a thunderous pounding of hooves and the darkness flowed around them, from them. Sunlight flashed on their blades and the runes ran molten silver on their swords, their gauntlets and shields against the sable of their cloaks, their horses, their long black silk hair. Legolas wanted to pause to watch the terrible beauty as their swords cut a swathe so the Orcs fell back gibbering and howling. _The Sons of Thunder have come_! They fled before the black horses and their riders.

Legolas spun and cut down one fleeing Orc with one blade and caught a second on the backstroke. Swift and precise was the key to the twin blades and he kicked out and slammed another Orc hard in the gut, brought one blade slashing down on its back and the other up through its throat. He was aware of a sweep of a great war axe nearby and instinctively stood back to back with the Dwarf and not single Orc passed them after that.

It was quickly over and the slaughter was great. The sun was already sinking below the Mountains and the ground was slippery with blood and gore, clots of blood and entrails strung out over the ground where the Brethren's' great swords had hacked the guts of their enemy. The axe inflicted even greater damage and the body of the Orcs killed by the Dwarf were many, great gouges in their flesh and limbs dangling. There was the smell of meat and blood, the iron tang on his tongue.

Suddenly there was a shout from Aragorn. All turned to see an Orc running hard away, as fast as it could through the half light up the slopes above the camp towards the river. Glorfindel grunted. 'Hells, that may summon help. This we can do without.'

Legolas swiftly strung his bow and reached behind him for one of his few remaining arrows. He sighted and let it fly. The Orc crumpled in a groaning heap and then tried to struggle on. Legolas strung another arrow but someone blocked out the light for a moment and he looked up to see one of the sons of Elrond. He reined in his great black charger and looked down at Legolas.

'Leave this one alive. I would leave a sign that we were here.'

Legolas frowned and looked up into the darkened eyes of the Son of Elrond. The nobility of his face was shadowed and Legolas thought the darkly dripping blade he held seemed almost to hiss. He took a step back, the hairs on his neck on end and the blood seemed to be absorbed into the blade rather than run off the steel.

Legolas stared. Then looking up he asked, 'Would you leave it struggling and howling enough to raise others?'

The black horse shook its head and the silver bit jingled. Its rider lifted his head and looked out to where the Orc writhed and howled, his grey eyes distant. 'Yes. Until it howls no more.'

Legolas said nothing but watched as the rider cantered easily through the destroyed camp and hefted a lance from amongst the abandoned weaponry. Then he turned the black horse in a tight circle and cantered up the slope towards the Orc which raised its hands and crawled away though the rider followed. He dismounted then and for a moment Legolas could not see what he was doing but he seemed to be driving the lance into the ground. He was aware that Glorfindel had turned away and his head was bowed. Then Legolas heard the gurgling wail of the Orc that went on and on and on.

He took a step forwards but Aragorn put his hand on Legolas' arm and he looked up to meet the Man's serious, troubled gaze. 'Let it be,' he said and Legolas looked back up the slope but did not move.

0o0o0

Gimli looked up to see that dusk had fallen by the time they had piled up the bodies of the Orcs, and he watched as Glorfindel kindled a branch and thrust it into the pyre.

'So we will send a beacon into the Mountains as a warning,' Glorfindel said grimly and the firelight shone red and gold on his face, made him wild and savage.

The coarse hair of the dead Orcs ignited and flared. In the darkness sparks flew up into the air and the flames leaped suddenly and roared. The pile of carcasses shifted and for a moment, the Orcs looked like they writhed, burning alive. There was the beginning of a smell that made Gimli feel nauseous, of charred and burning meat. He wiped his brow with his hand and turned away. He felt the battle fervour bleed from his bones and was weary now.

"Elrohir, Elladan, keep watch over the fire first,' Glorfindel asked and one of the sons of Elrond nodded. 'We will post two watches, one here and another on the camp.'

Glorfindel looked over the small group, assessing them, and then he broke off twigs and held them in his fist to draw for the watches. Gimli drew the shortest twig so he would be watching with the son of Thranduil, he thought. At least they would not to be posted at the fire. It was a horrific sight. Aragorn and Amron both grimaced when they drew the second watch at the carrion pyre, and that left Rhawion and Glorfindel taking the second watch at the camp. Glorfindel made no mention of a third watch. Gimli sighed and thought longingly of Imladris, with those enormous comfortable beds, rare red meat, not bad ale and good songs by a roaring log fire, and not a fire made of Orc carrion, he thought to himself.

Glorfindel looked as though he had not even broken stride once, not during the battle nor in the hard work of building the massive pyre. Only a light sheen was on his skin and his cheeks were slightly flushed. Gimli was not fanciful but for one moment he wished he could have stood and watched Glorfindel in battle. Not that he would ever admit to it but there was a fluidity to Elves' movements that Gimli, above all else a craftsman, wished to etch clearly in his memory.

Their camp was beside the river on a small pebbly beach at the foot of cliffs so there was a good vantage point immediately above the camp and yet sheltered and safe from prying eyes. A good spot, Gimli thought approvingly. The river was fast-flowing and fed the Bruinen. Gimli liked its white-green colour. Good for pots, he thought practically, digging his finger into the damp white clay soil and examining it with approval.

They cleaned themselves up as best they could in the dark and standing in the shallows of the river. Glorfindel allowed a small fire and they ate in silence. Gimli wondered if this was the time to call in the bets but no one seemed to have the appetite for it; every now and again there was a horrible cry of agony from the impaled Orc. Its gibbered speech in the Black Tongue made the Imladrian Elves cringe. Gimli noticed it did not have that effect on the Elf from Mirkwood, instead the Elf rose quickly to his feet and walked down to the river. No one said anything or watched him go.

Once Gimli had finished eating, Glorfindel gave him a nod and the Dwarf hefted his war axe and climbed out of the bowl that held their camp. There was a rocky outcrop where he would take the watch. He stood on the good stone, granite, he thought to himself seeing the glints in the moonlight, shot through with quartz. He stamped his foot on the good, solid rock. A good place to watch.

Below him the river wound a silver trail and he could hear its rushing through the gorge, over boulders, could hear the shift of pebbles and the grinding of the rocks. Further down river, the long spire of smoke and flames that was Orc pyre gave a hellish glow to the night and as he looked, there was a faint, exhausted howl.

He breathed a heavy sigh. Seasoned warrior that he was and witness to much slaughter, this was an unexpected and, he thought, unnecessary cruelty. He had not expected Elves to be so brutal. No matter that they found the small charred bones in the fire, the tattered blue cloth with daisies embroidered on it.

Gimli shifted and rested the head of his great war axe on the ground, leaned on the haft. He looked in the direction of the dying Orc and then back. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and turned to see strange green eyes gleaming in the starlight. He jumped and suddenly brought his axe up before him when a smooth voice said, 'Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.'

It was the Mirkwood Elf. He had been here all the time, sitting silently on the rocky outcrop, watching Gimli and saying nothing! He felt his beard prickle. He knew the Elves in Mirkwood well enough; he did not like their unwavering, unblinking stare, their intense stillness so you were fooled into thinking they were statues. And then the sudden burst of movement and song or silly laughter.

'It will take more than that to startle a Dwarf of Erebor,' he said, determined not to give in and let this Elf think he was intimidated. The long green eyes did not blink until the Elf turned his head slightly and from where he sat upon the rock, looked down the slope to where a dark blur writhed and lifted its head in a whimpering cry of agony.

The Elf turned back to Gimli and for a moment, Gimli thought the smooth mask slipped and something like distaste flickered over the Elf's face. There was a long pause then and the Elf looked down as if troubled. Gimli saw his chest rise and fall, as if he sighed but so quietly it slipped between his lips with not a sound.

The Elf looked up then and Gimli saw the Moon reflected in his strange green eyes. Slowly he reached behind him and drew an arrow. 'I hear something, Master Gimli. Do you?' he asked.

It was only then that Gimli realised his bow was strung and he held the arrow loosely against the string as if waiting.

It was strange, just the two of them, one sitting, one standing on the hard granite that glittered in the moonlight. Not a breath of wind. Not a sound...except even Gimli could hear the breathless gasps of the Orc.

Slowly Gimli met the Elf's unwavering gaze, and he nodded. It was time to end this.

'I do, Thranduilsson' he replied because he could not remember the Elf's name, just his father's. 'And it may well be dangerous so I bid you shoot it.' He paused then, remembering the fury and fire in the eyes of Elrond's sons. It was their trophy after all that the Elf would be denying them. And they could be dangerous. One of the brothers was molten fire, moving, spitting, destructive. 'Ridding us of this one danger however, may well bring another.'

There was silence and he guessed the Elf was thinking of the Sons of Elrond too. 'I am not afraid.' And then, not mocking but curious, the Elf asked, 'Are you?'

'Of course not!' he almost spluttered and then he saw the Elf smile. 'I was merely thinking of you and that you might need protecting.' Gimli stuck out his beard and crossed his arms in front of him.

'And you would protect me?' the Elf asked and he could hear the amusement in his voice.

'Do you need it?'

'I do not think so.'

'I think you will,' Gimli was amused himself now, for Dwarves love riddles and games and puzzles and he realised he was enjoying himself.

The Elf's teeth gleamed white in the dark. 'A wager then.'

'A wager,' he agreed. 'Let us make it the same as before. My boots are mucky, from the blood of the many orcs I killed,' he said. 'Although I note that yours are clean as a pin.'

'That is because I kill elegantly and do not stumble over the many, _many_ Orcs that I killed,' the Elf replied easily. 'But because of that, I will ask for your roulettes as you offered before.'

'Very well. If I have to protect you, you will clean my boots. If I do not, I will give you my roulettes.'

'Agreed.'

The Elf smoothly rose to his feet. He lifted his bow and fitted the arrow. Moonlight shone down on them and Gimli saw how it gleamed in the Elf's long hair, reflected in his eyes, silvered the stone and frosted the grass.

'You will not hit it from here,' Gimli said, resting the head of his great war axe on the ground and folding his arms over the haft.

There was a swoosh and then nothing.

'You have not hit it,' Gimli said in disbelief.

There was a sigh from the Elf and then he said, 'Would you care to make a wager?'

Gimli found his fingers twisting the ends of his beard and deliberately put his hands around the haft of his axe again, to stop himself. He was no fool though and this time he said, 'I do not wish you to work your fingers to the bone. Polishing my boots will be enough.'

The Elf laughed softly.

They did not speak again but watched as the Moon crossed the sky and stars wheeled overhead. He watched the Elf curiously and there were no more whimpers or sounds from the Orc. He remembered the Elf's name. It was Legolas.

0o0o

The Moon was high and the stars bright when Gimli heard soft sounds and Legolas shifted and rose fluidly to his feet. He was taller than Gimli remembered and the stars and moonlight seemed to catch on his hair, in his eyes. He thought there might have even been a faint glimmer...but surely that was his tired imagination? Then first Rhawion appeared and then Glorfindel climbed onto the rock and there was no doubt in Gimli's mind that Glorfindel had an aura about him that if he didn't glow, he should have done. His strong noble face was lit as if he beheld some great wonder and Gimli knew he was staring.

'Go and rest,' said Glorfindel and Gimli shook himself; what nonsense was this? He was spending too much time amongst Elves and it was making him fanciful.

He followed Legolas back down into the camp and rolled himself up in his blanket. Then he reached over and snagged Glorfindel's; after all, he did not need it and it was still warm.

He slept deeply, feeling the bones of the Earth beneath him, the good clean soil and listened to the sounds of stone as the river scraped and rolled small pebbles grinding against each other to make the smooth clay he knew was buried beneath the grass. He dreamt of a white city hidden in the mountains, where fountains played and molten jewels cunningly encased in marble and carved like trees and rivers...

0o0o

Gimli awoke abruptly to the sound of voices raised in anger. His hand immediately went to his small throwing axe and his fist tightened around it before he even opened his eyes. When he did blink his eyes open, he saw the sons of Elrond standing over Legolas, voices raised and eyes flashing in fury.

Legolas was sitting up, leaning back on his hands and his long hair fell down his back and pooled on the ground. One of the brothers threw something at Legolas, who caught it. An arrow, Gimli realised, and he was on his feet, axe in hand. The other son of Elrond had one hand on his brother's chest and was talking to him urgently, but he seemed to take no notice and glared down at Legolas, furious, incandescent. Gimli shook his head, this was exactly what he had expected.

'Elrohir! Daro!' said the one with his hand on the other's chest so Gimli knew this one was Elladan and the angry one was Elrohir.

Legolas looked away as if completely unbothered and pulled his hair over his shoulder, not even looking at Elrohir.

Elrohir shouted something, crackling and sparking like fire and Gimli wished he understood what was being said and had paid more attention to Bombour when he tried to teach him Sindarin.

Legolas picked up the arrow that had been thrown down and looked at it as if he were examining it carefully. Then he looked up and nodded in agreement with whatever Elrohir had said and shrugged nonchalantly. Infuriated, Elrohir shoved his brother back out of the way, and with fists clenched as if to stop himself from reaching for a weapon, he took another step towards Legolas so he was almost standing on him and Legolas had to strain his neck to look up as Elrohir shouted furiously at him. Spittle flew from his lips.

Suddenly another voice barked an order. Glorfindel strode into the camp and over to the sons of Elrond. He shoved Elrohir in the chest, pushed him back, and spoke loudly, demanding. There was more shouting, accusation from Elrohir who pointed at Legolas and then gesticulated towards the arrow. But Legolas remained sitting, and did not speak even though Glorfindel turned to him with such sorrow in his eyes that it took Gimli aback.

Suddenly Elrohir turned to Gimli. 'At the least he must have left his post to do this!' he cried. 'Tell me, for how long did you let him out of your sight?'

Gimli frowned and walked slowly over to them, knowing that when dealing with Elves it was best to walk slowly, appear unthreatening whilst keeping your hand on your axe and your finger on your throwing knife. Just in case. 'Why are you asking?' he said carefully.

'_This!_' Elrohir reached down and snatched up the green fletched arrow from where Legolas had placed it and thrust it towards Gimli. 'This was in the heart of the Orc I left as a warning.' He turned back to Legolas. 'He left his post to shoot it!'

'I did not leave my post.' Legolas said from where he sat.

'You _must_ have! No one could shoot that distance in the dark.' Elrohir poured out his scorn and anger. 'You must have left your post and taken it upon yourself to silence the Orc because it was disturbing you. Typical of Thranduil's folk. You could not kill your own but you can sneak off watch to put an arrow through an Orc.'

The air suddenly changed and became dangerous. Legolas rose slowly to his feet, saying something in his own tongue that was low and charged. Gimli saw that his fists too were clenched, so hard his knuckles were white. Whatever he said did nothing to calm things and Glorfindel said something to Legolas which he ignored and stepped around Glorfindel, closer to Elrohir. His eyes were hard and glittered. Glorfindel moved to keep between them and Gimli could see that only the respect they both had for Glorfindel held them apart, like a thin veneer, and at any moment, even that would shatter.

'He did not leave his post.' Gimli interjected, letting his voice roll beneath the noise, and as he knew they would, all ceased and looked at him. 'He did not leave his post for the whole watch. He stood with me on that rocky outcrop and did not leave it. And at the end of our watch he came back down here with me. He has not moved since.'

Elladan stepped in front of his brother and put his hand on his shoulder and spoke softly in their own tongue.

'How _dare _you challenge me!' Elrohir glared at Legolas, ignoring his brother, ignoring Gimli. The air seethed around him almost tangibly and Gimli thought he might explode. Like hot flames, molten rock, seething, moving, consuming, Gimli thought, whereas Legolas was still, like ice, his lovely face like a statue. But Gimli did not think the Woodelf was cold, not at all.

Gimli paused and thought for a moment. Smiling secretly to himself then, he stooped to pick up his boots. He took a step forwards and simply dropped his boots at the feet of the Woodelf. 'There,' he said and could not help a little smugness. 'I think you will find that I have won,' he said simply, looking up at Legolas.

Slowly as if reluctant to draw his gaze from the son of Elrond, Legolas looked down at the boots at his feet. Then he raised his head to stare at Gimli. His mouth was slightly open and Gimli grinned, showing his hard white teeth.

'That was the wager,' he added and drew one of the beautiful little roulettes from his belt and with his forefinger he spun its wheel. Light glinted off it, sparks flew, the razor edge hissed as it cut the air. He flicked its bronze etched centre and the blades opened smoothly, like silk; lethal scything blades. He let it glint in the firelight and smiled as if he were gloating. He waited for Legolas' reaction. 'And this is what you have lost. Again.'

And he was not disappointed for suddenly Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise and his face softened. He tipped his head back and laughed, such a merry sound.

Glorfindel looked over his shoulder at them both in surprise.

Gimli quirked an eyebrow and gave a pleased smile, for he thought Legolas had proved his worth in that reaction, acknowledging that he had been outwitted by the Dwarf, and was delighted by it.

Elrohir stared for a moment at Legolas and then with a cry of anger, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the camp, his brother following in his wake. Glorfindel watched them leave, and then turned away, his face full of compassion and sorrow.

Legolas sat back down on his blanket and gave Gimli the biggest grin he had ever seen on an Elf.

He felt his own mouth twitch but pulled his beard instead and pulled the blanket over his head. 'Don't wake me up again with your lover's tiffs,' he growled and fell straight to sleep.

When he awoke the next morning his boots were beside him, polished and as shiny as a bright new penny.

tbc

**ffnet keeps deleting any other wb addresses but if**** you googl followed by efiction, then dot then esteliel then dot then de and find me under ziggy, you can see Mienpies gorgeous Legolas pics. Thank you Mienpies. And if you leave a review, I'll post the next chapter more quickly:)**


	12. Chapter 12 Phellanthir

This chapter is especially for Mienpies and Alpha Ori- Happy Birthday, Alpha.

Beta: As always, without Anar this would be so much less.

Notes: _albai_: Orcish word for Elves. (not canon- my word)

(Sorry all- for some reason, this chapter did not upload so am trying again. Soem folks were able to access it and others not. Hope this triggers an alert - if not, I'll post a sort of alert chapter. Sorry if htis is messing you all up.)

**Chapter 12: Phellanthir**

Inevitably there was a lingering tension in the camp after the argument between Legolas and the Sons of Elrond, but Legolas told himself he did not care. He threw back his blanket and sat up. Something metallic fell out of his blanket and clinked against his knives.

Bending his head, he saw a small silver wheel, chased with bronze and with a cunning lock that he knew if pressed, tiny blades would slide soundlessly from their hidden groove. Gimli's roulette. He grinned and tossed it in the air once, and catching it between his fingers, carefully slid it into a concealed pocket in his belt.

He had been astonished by the Dwarf last night and looked over to where Gimli still slept, completely unaware it seemed of the breaking of dawn and the movement of the Elves.

Gimli was the only one still asleep. Rhawion was nowhere in sight but his weapons and blanket were left untidily near the fire, Glorfindel's great sword was leaning against a tree but of Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond there was no sign. Their horses were gone. Legolas could not say he was sorry. Elrohir had made obvious his disdain for Legolas even before the battle with the Orcs, and any admiration he had had for Elrohir Elrondion was quite gone. Instead there was a sour taste of his cruelty. Legolas did not believe it could have been Elrohir who had passed him that night in Imladris; he decided it must have been Elladan who had made him swoon.

Amron was on breakfast duty and grumpily stirring something that smelled...Legolas cocked his head to one side and tried to identify it. Herby, he decided. Fishy. If Amron was cooking, whatever it was it would be delicious.

He scooped up a couple of water skins and made his way down to the river. The air was cold and his breath misted like the smoke the Man and Dwarf were so fond, he thought.

He crouched at the edge and looked at the cloudy green-white water, wondering if it was good to drink when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck and glanced upwards. There silhouetted on the cliff above him, was a dark figure. The wind blew hard and cold up there on the cliff, swirling a sable cloak and raven-black hair. Elrohir.

Legolas wondered if Elrohir was alone up there or if Aragorn and Elladan were with him. Feeling the uncomfortable weight of Elrohir's stare, he wondered if this is how all Men felt under an elven gaze. The hairs on the back of his neck raised like hackles on a dog.

Pointedly he ignored Elrohir, and deciding not to risk the cloudy water, stood and stretched nonchalantly in the weak sunlight. He felt the gaze sharp and intent between his shoulder blades but did not look up again. Then he slowly slung the straps of the water-skins over his shoulder and returned, swinging his arms carelessly and whistling loudly. He walked back to the camp and scooped up any empty water skins he could find.

Amron saw him and pointed up a small gully. 'Water's up there. You may as well make yourself useful. It's going to be difficult enough today as it is,' he said glumly, turning back to his cooking pot to give it a stir. 'Let's hope Glorfindel sends the Brethren on their way and we aren't keeping you all apart with our blades.'

Legolas shrugged again and strode up the narrow path to find a clear spring that gurgled from the rock and into a small stream. He did not doubt his own actions; no Woodelf would have left even an Orc or Spider to suffer needlessly, no matter the hatred between them. And Laersul would never have allowed it, he thought. He wondered why Glorfindel tolerated it.

Trees shaded the spring and ferns grew around it and he listened to the insects slowly, sleepily chirring beneath the bark and in the undergrowth a blackbird hopped about, turning over the mulch of leaves in sharp jerks in search of food. He squatted beside the spring and dipped a water skin into the cold, clear water, remembering that Berensul had told him, that Elrohir Elrondion had lost all his mirth, all his love, all his joy, and relentlessly pursued vengeance... That he did not love... That for him, there was only vengeance. Legolas filled first one, then another water skin, and wondered if he or Laersul or Thalos could ever be have been the same. He remembered too the bones he had passed on his journey to Imladris, and the tattered scrap of blue cloth clutched in the hand of the Orc, the small bones.

Legolas paused, head bowed, staring unseeing at the pebbles that shifted and moved in the fast flowing water, the deep moss and ferns around the spring. And then it struck him again...

_...standing amongst the twisted trees, bow taut, arrow drawn against his cheek, fingers ready to fly open...and ahead of him, a crowd of Orcs jeering and calling, too many. And suddenly between them he just glimpsed an Elf, his face white and screaming, his eyes squeezed shut, and a glint of steel caught. Naurion. There was a spear being shoved slowly, slowly into Naurion's twitching body but not quite enough to kill and his hands clasped and opened like he prayed, and the steel shaft thrust in and out like a rape...There was a clear shot...and from the corner of Legolas' eye he saw Laersul surrounded and down. without thought, without pause, he loosed the arrow and turned back...and then Naurion was gone, under a seething mass of Orcs like black beetles swarming and there was cold, freezing his scalp..._

Legolas pushed himself suddenly to his feet and stood looking down into the cold clear water unseeing. Elrohir's words the night before tore their way out of his heart. '_It seems you can hit an Orc to give it mercy, but you cannot give mercy to one of your own,'_ he had sneered. It was true. Legolas' hand crept to his heart and plucked at the green sueded fabric of his tunic as if he could pluck out the pain and cast it away.

He moved his head as if he might free himself of the memory, shake it loose and let it fly away in the wind that murmured through the dead leaves. Turning his head, he looked North towards Imladris, knowing the borders here were unbreached, and he wondered if the brothers' cruelty had strengthened the Elves here. It was what Elrohir had said in that furious exchange the night before. '_No wonder Thranduil cannot hold his borders with such weak stomachs. They say you are more dangerous, less wise. Dangerous perhaps only to your own. Or Dwarves,_' he had snarled with a glance towards Gimli who had just risen to his feet and stood braced as if against a storm. And indeed, that was how it felt, Legolas reflected; he had felt buffeted by the storm of Elrohir's rage, like a crimson wave had roiled and surged around him.

Slowly he walked back to the camp. Glorfindel was there and gave Legolas an appraising look. Legolas said nothing and simply dropped the water skins near Amron and then stooped to roll up his blanket. He mentally braced himself for the scolding he would have got from Laersul and readied himself for any punishment to be meted out, wondering if Glorfindel would make him apologise, back down, retract...

Glorfindel buckled his vambraces and slid his hands over them, smoothing the suede of his dark blue tunic that was almost grey. He looked up at Legolas as he did. 'I have asked Aragorn, Elrohir and Elladan to meet with the Dunedain. They will have to have news of the Orc camp. It bodes ill if they do not know of it.' Of the night's events however, he said nothing.

Legolas felt a strange mixture of disappointment and relief knowing that he would not be in Elrohir's company now. Glorfindel pulled his dark grey cloak over his shoulders and fastened it with a beautifully wrought brooch, a golden harp, its fine wire strings twined about with flowers and stars. Legolas glanced upwards to where the dark figure had been standing, but he had gone.

'I think today you, Legolas, will go with Gimli. Amron and Rhawion will search higher up,' Glorfindel continued, pulling the cloak about himself so the brooch was hidden. 'Search the river banks thoroughly and report back to me if you find anything or sense anything.' He stooped to pick up his great sword and buckled the heavily jeweled scabbard that Legolas would normally have thought ostentatious but which seemed only appropriate for such a warrior as Glorfindel, and then turned to Amron.

'Elrohir and Elladan will meet us further downriver at Phellanthir in a few days. We will have gone as far as we need I think. Then we will return to Imladris.'

He nodded courteously to his men and then strode off towards the river bank, great bow slung over his shoulder and sword at his hip. Clearly he was hunting alone that day.

So no scolding? Legolas thought surprised and watched Glorfindel as he disappeared amongst the willows that leaned over the river, trailed their leaves across the still water.

'No good staring after him like some love-sick girl.' Amron handed him a bowl and Legolas took it from him almost unthinking. 'He is the noblest and best amongst us. But his heart is closed. Many have tried knocking on it but closed it remains.' He smiled kindly at Legolas' astonished face. 'Don't look so shocked. Everyone knows in MIrkwood you keep to the Laws and Customs.' He shrugged and looked at Legolas appraisingly. 'But even _you_ are not going to be enough to tempt him.'

Legolas was outraged. 'I am not mooning after Glorfindel! I admire him, respect him. He is the most courageous and noble Elf I have ever met!'

Amron lifted an eyebrow meaningfully and Legolas stared. Then he laughed and shook his head slightly, smiling to himself. 'I do not know myself,' he declared. 'It is true I am besotted. But not in that way, I assure you. I do not imagine he would even look at me when he could have anyone. There are such noble lords and ladies in Imladris.' He smiled ruefully.

Amron smiled back warmly and then scooped a ladleful of broth from his cooking pot and plopped it into a bowl. He handed it to Legolas and looked at him for a moment. 'Legolas, you are not at all what I had imagined. I have become quite fond of you.'

'And I have become fond of you too, Amron.' Legolas tasted the broth and smacked his lips. 'Particularly your cooking; your name will be sung in the Halls of the King.' He spooned the rich broth into his mouth.

'As I think your name will be sung in the Halls of Imladris,' Amron laughed and Legolas grimaced. 'Ah, I was not thinking of that, but do not repent your deed. It was well done and it is to my shame that it was not done by my hand.'

'Elrohir will not find to easy to forgive,' Legolas said but he was still unrepentant. 'But I will never see him again after we return to Imladris and in spite of your songs, he will forget even my name,' he said. But in spite of the relief he felt with that knowledge, he felt a sudden yawning gap in his chest as if he had lost something precious. He frowned, wondering and thought it must be homesickness.

_I will be home again soon,_ he told himself, _and what a tale I will have to tell. They will say in the Wood,_ he thought, _Legolas was there when the Ring was uncovered. _And he would tell of his joining Glorfindel in the hunt for the Nazgul. He smiled and thought he could even add a few details, his gaze drifting towards the place Glorfindel's mighty sword had leaned only minutes before.

Amron glanced up and looked fondly at Legolas as he scraped his spoon around the bowl. 'I do not think Elrohir will forget your name. And I will not.' He laughed. 'You have any number of nice trinkets to remember us by,' he said.

Legolas grinned and said nothing but wiped his bowl clean with a piece of bread.

'I hope that you have hit a losing streak.' Amron brandished the small knife Legolas had won at dice the previous evening and Amron had to borrow back to fillet the trout he had caught that morning. 'I see you have polished Master Gimli's boots. Does that mean you have admitted he slew more Orcs than you?'

Legolas chewed the last piece of bread and swallowed and Amron continued, 'I did see him with his axe. I have never seen a Dwarf in battle before. I admit, it is impressive and I am glad he is on our side.'

'I admit nothing,' said Legolas with a smile. He looked into his empty bowl and Amron dropped another dollop of stew in it. 'You can give me the rest,' said Legolas. 'Dwarves eat like birds.'

Amron laughed for he knew differently. 'You polished his boots out of kindliness then?'

Legolas laughed. 'I am a very kind person,' he said and wiped the last of his bread around his bowl as Rhawion appeared from the riverbank having completed his morning ablutions.

'Rhawion, you have missed breakfast with the hours you have spent in the river making yourself beautiful. There is no one to see you but us and the Nazgul,' Amron called to him cheerfully.

'I at least have some decent raw materials to work on, unlike some of you who only your mothers could love,' Rhawion said. He stood next to Legolas and looked at him. 'Let's see if we can't get some Mirkwood gold out of you this evening. Amron and I think you are on a losing streak. Gimli's boots are like glass!'

Amron glanced up amused. 'He is saying nothing, Rhawion. Do not waste your breath on him. But we will have plenty of chances to get our trinkets back on the way home,' he said reassuringly. 'We head for Phellanthir. Until then, lackwit-lackmoney, we have a Nazgul to find.' Amron stood and emptied the contents of the pot into two remaining bowls and thrust one at Rhawion who sat cross legged beside Legolas to eat. The other he nestled carefully in the embers of the fire to keep warm for Gimli, who still snored happily.

At the mention of Phellanthir, Rhawion made a face. 'I do not like Phellanthir,' he said grimly. 'It is a ruined and haunted place. Why do we go there?'

'It is at the end of the road, that's why. And our lord Glorfindel says so.' Amron lifted his cooking pot and checked it was empty. He scraped around it with a spoon and, clearly noticing how much Legolas appreciated his cooking, dropped the last bit into Legolas' empty bowl. 'Then back to Imladris and my lovely Felwen warming my soft bed.'

Rhawion grinned conspiratorially at Legolas; Amron talked endlessly of his Felwen, the most beautiful maiden to have ever graced Arda according to her besotted lover, with the smoothest hair, her eyes like stars or sapphires, breasts like milk and skin like honey, her tears like pearls or crystals. Rhawion had confided in Legolas that she was truly a feather-brain who dripped about the House strumming the harp with Lindir. Rhawion had also muttered some very disparaging comments about Lindir and his preferences. Legolas did not much care, but he had said that Lindir and Berensul were 'close' in a way that suggested disapproval. Legolas was hardly one to disapprove of anyone's proclivities or preferences, for he had so many himself but he wondered if the disapproval extended to himself and decided it did not, for both Rhawion and Amron were cheerful and friendly.

'What is Phellanthir?' Legolas asked instead, finishing the last bit of broth and licking his spoon clean. He really would miss Amron's cooking when he had to resort to his own meager skills on the road home. He looked inside his bowl for he would have licked that clean too but it was not worth it.

'It is at the tip of the Angle.' Rhawion told him. 'There is an old abandoned watchtower at the tip, the Arrow we call it. In the days of Eregion, it was the third city. Celebrimbor had a residence there but all that was destroyed when Eregion was taken by Sauron. Then in the time of the Kings, there was a thriving and busy port but it was abandoned and left until all that remained was the watchtower. It linked with Amon Sul. And then even that has gone. It is ruined now.'

It was then that Gimli stirred and Amron placed the last bowl beside him. He sat up and stroked his beard and scowled at the Elves who all turned to stare at him. Then he pulled his blanket about his body and climbed to his feet. He did not speak but they had become used to his ways and knew better than to speak to him or greet him until he had had a pipe and a cup of something to warm his bones. But when he finally struggled to his feet and went to pull on his shiny boots, he smiled and stroked his long, silky beard.

0o0o0

It took them two more days to reach Phellanthir. They kept the Bruinen close on their left now and Glorfindel drove them hard, searching in the fens and marshes, in the rushes and amongst the boulders. Often he gave the lead to Legolas and if Legolas knew there was nothing, could feel it in the air, Glorfindel listened to him and moved them on quickly as if he were driven by some purpose they did not know.

The Moon had already risen on the evening of the first day when Glorfindel took Legolas with him to climb a high tor; its great granite boulders seemed to have erupted from the land, tumbled down the slopes. They stood gazing out across the treetops to the silver ribbon that was the river. Far ahead of them on the horizon, still miles away but within a day's march, was rocky outcrop. Like teeth the ruined towers and spires rose up against the ragged sky

' That is Phellanthir,' said Glorfindel and his voice was full of regret and nostalgia. 'This was a fair place once.' He sighed. 'The third city of Eregion. The smiths here cast jewels and melted them,* swirled them through mithril and chased them with gold and silver. They built those towers and palaces fair and high.' He lifted his hand and pointed towards the ruins that were silhouetted against the evening skies. 'Celebrimbor was king in Ost-in-Edhel, the last great Noldor kingdom. Almost the last of the Fëanorians. Damn them and their pride.' But it was said with no passion or ire but unutterable sadness. Even Legolas knew the story of Fëanor, though Thranduil told it with unforgiving fire and venom.

For a moment the Moon shone on Glorfindel's face and turned him marble pale and he was so still, so lost in memory that he could have been carved from the marble he resembled. 'I failed them too. Came too late. The city was already sacked and Elrond and I could do naught but watch the smoke and flames...' An expression of inconsolable grief was on his lovely face and Legolas bowed his head. He found himself leaning towards the elven warrior who had dwelt in Gondolin, now sacked and drowned, and Legolas half-closed his eyes, listening..._he could hear the screams, smell the smoke and stench of burning flesh. He saw a host of elven steeds and knights, helms gleaming in the sun as they galloped along the banks of the Bruinen to Ost-in-Edhel's aid. Too late, too late...and a glorious white horse at the front, turned. The rider lifted his visor to see better the burning city, the crumbling towers blasted and razed, saw it all with his piercing blue eyes that had seen more than any Elf living. The snap of bright pennants streaming in the wind and the pound of horses' hooves...too late, too late..._

Legolas leaned towards Glorfindel, lost in memory...and was suddenly aware of the brightness of the moonlight, how deep blue was the darkening sky. He heard the land around him stretch and sigh as it turned to sleep, to winter.

The glint of moonlight on Glorfindel's hair, his lonely nobility and the awful loss ached and Legolas almost brushed against him, almost took his hand and pressed it against his heart and vowed he would never be lonely again if only...

But instead he smiled, remembering Amron's amusement at his own besotted worship. Berensul's warnings about the Noldor sensibilities returned to him and he would not for all the world wish to lose Glorfindel's good opinion of him when he had already thrown away the Sons of Thunder.

So he simply stood by whilst Glorfindel grieved for the glory of ancient days, for the House of Fëanor finally, utterly destroyed.

0o0o

Even swifter then, Glorfindel drove them. He abandoned the searches on the riverbank and they simply headed straight over the Angle and towards the Arrow, Phellanthir.

Night was falling as they approached and the moon rose once again and rode above thickening clouds that tore wraith-like across the star-scattered sky. Ahead of them the stony outcrop raised itself above the woods and marshes. Tall ruined towers pierced the sky, like blackened fangs. Legolas recoiled; it was indeed a ruined and haunted place.

They did not enter the walls of the tower and set their camp at a distance from the hill upon which it stood. While Gimli laid the fire and with clever, square hands coaxed it into life, Legolas caught an unwary rabbit and as Amron crumbled herbs into boiling water, Legolas prepared the rabbit, and dropped fillets of meat into the water. Supper was a friendly affair, rabbit stew, bread and roots that Rhawion dug up with the tip of a knife and dropped into Amron's lap. Amron brushed off the mud and placed them carefully in amongst the stones of the fire and they were sweet and soft when Legolas peeled the skin off. Glorfindel had left them to scout the Tower and would take no one with him.

After they ate, Gimli pulled out his pipe and puffed quietly on the edge of the camp. He was careful to let the smoke trail off into the air. 'Over there in the Mountains is Khazad-dûm. The ancient glory of the Dwarves.' His voice was low, resonant, like the song of stone and the deep chambers beneath the earth. 'Balin is there. I hoped to have news of him 'ere we returned to Erebor. He has retaken the halls from the goblins and it will be as it was in Durin's time. The halls will be paved again with gold. The secrets of the mines will be again uncovered.'

Legolas was still and listened to the longing in his voice and thought Gimli shared the same deep emotion that pierced Glorfindel's heart.

'It was said that the gates were always open,' Amron said quietly and Legolas turned to stare, wondering if Amron might have been one who rode with Elrond and Glorfindel to Celebrimbor's aid. 'There was much trade between the Dwarves and Elves.' At this, Rhawion stirred slightly but did not speak and Amron continued, 'Narvi and Celebrimbor forged the gates together and they were a sign of their great friendship. Those were the last days of glory for our people.' He dropped his gaze back to the fire.

Legolas said nothing; he had never thought much about the Noldor until now. Thranduil was bitter and uncompromising in his belief that the Noldor had betrayed their folk, the Silvans and Sindar, had slaughtered them in Doriath and sacrificed them in Dagorlad, that their hot and furious blood had brought them nothing but doom. And only a few days ago he would have laughed in disbelief to hear that there had ever been such friendship between even a Noldor Elf and Dwarf. Now however, after only a few days in Gimli's company, though it would never happen to him, he could imagine such a friendship. He supposed too that the Noldor were a strange folk and much concerned with gold and jewels, and he supposed would have much in common with the Dwarves.

Legolas had taken the last watch the night before and expected to take the first watch, but when he went to stand on the perimeter, Glorfindel patted him on the shoulder and sent him off to sleep. When he awoke later at a noise in the night, he saw Glorfindel still on watch though the moon was high and the hour late. Glorfindel watched all night, and the next day he was quiet and alert as if he were waiting for something.

0o0o0

They had fled the scene of slaughter. The cruel, bright _albai_ did not pursue them and so Ghashnik and Thrakash had fled before them as the group of murdering and blood-thirsty _albai _and_ tark _hunted them relentlessly. Gimgûl had been wounded and they had abandoned him in the marshes of the river, left him to rot, and now they were here in the shadow of the old watchtower, knowing that the Gûlwas here. Thrakash could feel it drawing him closer and he hurried Ghashnik for they were _Lug-hai_, folk of the Tower in the big forest of _Búrzkik_. His heart longed for the safety of the dark trees and their twisted trunks.

Now he and Ghashnik crouched at the foot of the crumbling tower and watched as two of the _albai_ searched for them amongst the rushes at the edges of the river. The water was too deep here to cross and rushed over the rocks. They had briefly considered swimming it anyway until they felt the Gûl's comforting presence and their hearts had shouted in glee and delight. Now they waited for the _albai_ to leave so they could find their master.

Thrakash glanced down at his heavy sabre. Its coating of venom with which he had so carefully greased the blade was still there, a slick gleam over the edge of the blade and he wished there were more of their _hai _so they could burst upon these two unwary _albai_ with their ugly, bright faces. Then they could cut the red, beating hearts from their chests, watch them scream and writhe as the _albai_ had made Bubhosh scream, impaled upon the spear. Thrakash would never forgive the _albai_ for that. He wanted revenge.

Awareness of the Gûl grew upon them both, like a slick of oil in the mouth. It beckoned to them, gave them dreams of what they wanted, how they must find their way into the tower, to hide and wait, how the Gûl would cast a cloak of darkness about them and drive the _albai_ onto Thrakash's waiting blade. Again, he was shown his own sabre striking them down, his talons tearing open their thin, pale chests and reaching through the meat and pulsing, pumping veins to the rich red jewel within, the beating pumping heart, to gore them with his teeth and suck the blood from the dripping heart... He felt his own heart pound and the blood leap in his veins. _Be still_, he told himself,_ be still,_ or they would see them with their sharp bright eyes, hear them with their wicked pointed ears so horribly similar to his own. It made him shudder to think of the whispered rumours that the _Hai _had been_ albai _once until the Great One had saved the spirit of the _Hai_ within and transformed them. And how he hated them for what they were, for what he once was...

Ghashnik had sunk to his hindquarters behind fallen stones, his mottley hide beautifully camouflaged by the ivy that slunk up the ruins of the tower. Thrakash's own hide was greyer and even better disguised here than in the trees. And he watched the _albai_ as they searched, ever closer...

The one with the smooth, bright hair looked up suddenly as if he sensed something, its terrible sharp gaze drifted over them and he felt Ghashnik stiffen. He put his own hand lightly on his companion's shoulder to still him, to silence him and for a moment, the _albai _stared almost straight at them and Thrakash had to control his thumping breath in case he gave them away. But the other _albai _called to the first and it turned away. He felt Ghashnik breathe out in relief. Slowly, they sank back into the gloom. Deeper into the tower's ruined twisted heart. Waiting.

The _albai_ called to one another and slowly, their trail brought them closer to the tower and then one of them looked up. Thrakash knew the darkness had been growing, he could feel it growing in power and filling him but it seemed the _albai_ had only just realised and then saw the skies filling with clouds and thunder. And then as the first big drops splashed, they both stood together for a moment and then began to come right towards the two Orcs. He was surprised they did not realise the Orcs were there but the slick oil of the Gûl smothered the Orcs and Thrakash slowly brought up his venom-edged saber, careful not to let it catch in the light.

0o0o

Knowing the Brethren and Aragorn would be joining them soon, they spent the day scouting, searching the water margins, the marshes and fens. Great trunks of ivy grew over the ruined towers and buildings, and the harbour that had once been a great wall of cleverly crafted stone and elegant quays was fallen into complete ruin. Glorfindel had forbid them enter the tower or climb the rocky outcrop upon which it was built, and none of them wished to for there was an unhealthy air about it and a strange smell, an air.

Rhawion and Legolas had drawn as close to the base of the tower as they wished and paused to search the marshy fens that had once been a shallow harbour. An old rusted anchor lay on its side amongst the rushes.

When they saw the heavy rainstorm approach from the East, Rhawion complained and insisted they take shelter in the tower although Legolas was unwilling.

'Glorfindel told us he did not want us going in there,' he said but it sounded weak even to him. 'I thought you didn't like being near the tower?'

Rhawion shrugged, 'I do not, But nor am I fool enough to stand out in the rain such as this when there is perfectly good shelter nearby. We only have to stand in one of the archways- we'll not go against Glorfindel since you are so anxious to please him.' Rhawion smiled and then added, 'If you are scared, you can stay here and I will scout.'

'I am not scared!' Legolas said before he realised that he was. There was something about the tower that repelled him, and looking towards the tower he thought for a moment he saw movement, a glint. He narrowed his eyes but there was nothing; perhaps it was merely the weak and fading sunlight on rain. After a moment, he turned back to Rhawion. 'Why don't we just make our way back to those willows?'

'Typical Woodelf! Thin skimpy trees that give no shelter or proper elven-constructed building? It's trees every time with you,' Rhawion said but he smiled as he spoke. A roll of loud thunder crashed in over the river from the mountains. He looked at Legolas. 'It is unwise to shelter near trees in a thunderstorm,' he said.

'Why ever not?' Legolas asked astonished.

'Trees can bring the lightning,' Rhawion said authoritatively and did not wait for Legolas' answer but passed him and jogged quickly towards the tower.

Legolas reached out to grab his sleeve. Something didn't feel right. That taste in his mouth was not only the lightning. That pricking of his fingertips was not only the storm.

'Rhawion!' he cried, 'Rhawion, wait.'

But Rhawion shook him off, pulled away, laughing. 'Come along, treecreeper.'

A crash of thunder rolled over the mountains and then the sky spilt apart with a lightning flash. Great drops of rain splattered his face and Rhawion grabbed his sleeve, pulling him towards the old tower. Already the wind gusted along the river bank, bent the willows and thrashed their long trailing branches, pulled at their cloaks and long hair. Legolas squinted into the wind and saw then.

'The Nazgul has been here,' he hissed, dragging Rhawion back.

'It has long gone,' Rhawion said, but he did not go deeper into the Tower.

They stood at the entrance and stared into the darkness. Coils of ivy looped, slithered like thick serpents over the stones and a dim greenish glow hung about the ruins like the luminous moss that grew in damp and dingy places in the south of the wood. Behind them, great drops of rain splashed on the broken stones and the wind blew gusts along the riverbank. Legolas squinted against the wind and rain, saw the sudden darkening of the skies, a dense cloud tinged yellow and purple like a bruise. A spike of lightning flashed over the mountains and had this been an ordinary storm, he would have laughed and dragged Rhawion out into the rain but his hair rose on the back of his neck and his fingertips prickled. He wondered if the Nazgul were coming for the last of their number. Were they riding in on the storm? Would they appear out of the lightning on huge wet black steeds and sweep their terror over the land?

He caught himself. Fear. It is only fear, he reminded himself, knowing now that indeed the Nazgul had been here recently.

'We should not go on,' he whispered and took a step back.

What madness possessed Rhawion then, he never knew for the warrior had learned to heed Legolas. But this time, he did not and shook his head, stepped in from the rain. There was a slight, soft sound to Legolas' right and he turned to look, eyes wide, hands going to his bow. Instantly he let an arrow shoot through the shadows and heard it clang uselessly against stone. He let his breath go and turned back to Rhawion.

'Come. We must go from this place.'

'You are skittish as a colt,' Rhawion said and moved within. He shifted his bow from his shoulder and leant it against the wall. 'It is dry in here and we can shelter. We won't go in any further. It is a dark and eerie place, but look how it rains!'

Legolas could hear the rain driving down and the wind roaring through the trees, the ruins above. It drew moans and whistles through the empty halls above. He hardly dared drag his eyes from the gloom, but he glanced quickly over his shoulder. A spike of lightning flashed and the mountains were sharp and jagged, black against the lightning.

'It is the storm that makes you jumpy,' Rhawion said amiably and settled himself against the wall, leaning back and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Legolas looked at him astounded. He took two strides across to Rhawion and grasped his sleeve. 'I tell you, we need to leave. Now. A Nazgul is here. Somewhere.' He pulled Rhawion to his feet and looked around and listened. Grumbling, Rhawion snatched up his bow and glared at Legolas.

'Very well,' he said.'If it makes you happy, but there is nothing here. I am sure I would know if Nazgul were here. All I can feel is my hair prickling from the storm.'

Legolas stared at him wide -eyed. He knew then.

The smell and discordant notes were revealed to him, almost as if a veil that had cloaked them had been drawn back...whatever had shrouded them now wanted him to hear. He took a breath.

There was a smell like old, empty tombs. Nazgûl.

'Run!' he shouted.

tbc

* Reference to Spiced wine's wonderful descriptions of the Feanorian cities -Magnificat etc.


	13. Chapter 13: Nazgûl

Beta: The gorgeous Anarithilen, who gives her time so generously and for no reward.

For Scarlett 10 and Kenaz- Happy Birthdays (if a little belated) and a special MOMENT for Mienepies, who has sent me another lovely picture- this time a 'fanmoment' with Legolas looking adoringly at Glorfindel. (One of these coming up!). To see all her works on the story, go to eith my livejournal -ziggy777 or (google this as ffnet wont ever let me write other webistes) .de. I post there.

Thank you to those who review - it really means a lot. Melusine, ThisLittlePiggy, MDarkspirt, freddie, Vanwa, estra, kasugai gummie, IsaDayDreamer (oh, I think you'll get an idea in this chapter or the next one- don't worry, you sweet thing!) and then lots of lovely guests -please do login as I always reply and like to answer /say thank you.

Translations:

Nimir – Shining one. Adunaic name for elves.

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil was the one who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara

-mîk – Child of.

**Chapter 13: Nazgûl**

A wind suddenly howled through the dank tunnels, tearing masonry from the rain-soaked walls, hurling chunks of wet stone around them. Legolas felt the stones shake beneath his feet and ran faster. He thrust Rhawion back through the arch and down another passageway under the pelting rain.

'Stay in cover,' he shouted and shoved Rhawion ahead of him. They fled. Up the tunnels, into a courtyard, turned frantically and dived down another tunnel. The wind howled after them and a spectral light, eerie, green, luminous, pursued them. A terrible visage stared at him with sunken eyes. Its jaws opened and a terrible scream spilt the air. Legolas saw Rhawion stumble and grabbed him, dragged him through an arch, and ducked down a small corridor, thrust him ahead into a small room, and then another beyond it. The wind screamed by and past them, the green light flared and flashed and disappeared.

There was a horrible slithering sound, like scales drawn over stones and he was for a second thrown back to that moment under the Mountain, Smaug's claws extended and flexed* and his heart suddenly leaped and pounded, hammered in his chest so it must hear, it _must_ hear...Tears leaked from his eyes and horror flooded his veins, every pore... But he kept hard hold of Rhawion who staggered and stumbled against him, shoved him deeper into the tower.

'In here. Quickly!' Legolas hissed. There was no roof to this small room and the rain splattered against the stone floor, drenched their hair and skin. He realised it was an old guard room for there were ancient rusted spears on the wall, shields. Hanging from one corner was a ragged banner, its device faded and the colour bled away into the tattered edges. He dragged Rhawion into the corner with him, crouched in the shadows, nerves jangling, hands feeling fuzzy with it.

'Slow your breath,' he whispered urgently. 'We can stay here for a moment until it has gone.'

Rhawion struggled against him, eyes wild and panicked. 'No! We must flee!'

'We will. Soon.' Legolas' own breath gasped, his chest heaved, heart pounding. He took a breath and willed himself still, looked up at the open sky above him, smelt the clean rain. 'Let it pass us by first. Hold, hold.' He spoke as much for himself as Rhawion. 'Slow your breathing,' Legolas whispered, feeling his own blood thundering in his veins. 'Soothe your spirit, your song...Calm.' He pulled Rhawion's wet face towards him, held his gaze and the frightened Elf stared at him, felt the rain on his own skin.

'Hush...hush. It will not find us if we hide our fear. Think of the stew that Amron will be making. Think of the coin you will win back from me this night.' He breathed with Rhawion, leaned towards him and listened, but the Elf was too panicked and all Legolas could hear was the wild beating of Rhawion's heart; there was a seesaw lurch of waterfalls and valleys, sweet alpine meadows... He had always been in the Valley...

Rhawion clutched at Legolas. 'We must fly this place! Run.' He struggled against Legolas and tried to pull away.

Legolas pinned him against the crumbling wall and forced Rhawion to look at him, let his bow fall to the rain-drenched floor so he could hold Rhawion still. 'It is only fear,' he said quietly, earnestly, ignoring his own wild panic. He closed his eyes slowly and breathed through his nose, for it calmed his men in the Wood, opened his eyes slowly to look at Rhawion, who slowly brought his gaze to fix upon Legolas.

'That's it,' said Legolas softly, encouraging. 'It has been unhorsed, uncloaked. It has no physical form. It can only frighten us. And we need not give it that power.' He hoped it was true, but he had no real knowledge of the Nazgûl like this...a little thought niggled at him; perhaps uncloaked they were worse, in their raw power...He pushed that terrible thought aside and breathed.

Slowly he relaxed his hold on Rhawion, stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides and Rhawion did not flee. Rain pattered on the stone floor, Legolas' skin was wet and hair plastered to his skull, trickled down his neck.

He turned to scoop up his bow, and rubbed his fingertips together frantically for the pricking of his fingers had turned to hot needles. Alarmed, he looked up towards the cracked and broken doorway. It seemed that in the darkness beyond, the air dislocated; everything slowed, colour bled away into a strange sepia, and the walls, the doorway elongated and distorted. It was like looking into a still pond and seeing the reflection break...A heavy weight seemed to press against his chest and squeeze the breath from his lungs. Long shadows beyond the doorway trembled and slid, and something skittered across the darkness, like a slick of oil on water. It pressed onto the dark.

_I am coming._

Breathless with fear, heart pounding, he stumbled backwards into Rhawion. Rhawion's eyes were huge, wide, and Legolas felt the hairs all down his neck, spine and his arms rise in frozen horror. Shaking, he drew one of his long, white knives, knowing they were useless against this enemy, and stumbled back.

'What? What is it?' Rhawion asked, breath panicked and fast. 'We must get out.'

From the darkened heart of the tower, beyond the doorway, a cold wind fingered its way towards them, and it smelt of old and empty tombs...

_Azgarâzir-mîk... _

The word seemed to hiss from the air, and the coldness of it made his blood stand chill and cold. His hair stood on end. _Azgarâzir_ was what the Orcs of the South called Thranduil. It knew him.

_Far from home..._

He stumbled back another step. Breathing hard and fast, he held his knife before him, could see it shaking in his trembling hands.

_Better to run..._

A long howl came from the tunnels and ruins beyond, like a long leash of sound that wound through the tunnels and empty rooms, the abandoned watch tower...

'What is... that?' Rhawion stared at Legolas, looked down at his shaking hand.

Legolas gripped him hard. 'It is the Nazgul. It has found us.' He glanced around the old guard room. There was only the one doorway, and beyond it the shadows seemed to slide and press against the dark, as if they merely waited. He looked up into the rain, at the grey

skies that pelted them with rain and then at the crumbling, slippery walls. 'It is only fear,' he said again, and held hard to Rhawion's hands in his so that his own would not shake.

And then the wraith was upon them. A screaming wind roared along the passages and twisted into the guard room, flattened the Elves against the crumbling walls, tore at their long hair, whipped tears from their eyes. A terrible, blood-freezing scream split the air and both Elves clapped their hands over their ears. Legolas felt warmth seep between his fingers and thought his ears bled. The old spears and iron shields juddered frenziedly in the wind and a knife rattled on the wall like a ghostly hand was shaking it. A rusted sword clattered to the floor beside them. The banner tore and flapped like a huge bat in the rain.

A long, thin knife on the wall rattled more violently and suddenly jolted loose. In the furious wind it hurtled through the air towards Legolas. He pulled back and it whipped past. Behind him, Rhawion stared at Legolas, eyes wide in horror and then...and then...his mouth opened in a wordless O that was lost in the battering rain and wind, and he staggered forwards, clutched at Legolas' sleeve and sank to his knees in the rain.

Bright blood spilled over his fingers where he clutched his chest, soaked his tunic. Legolas stared down at him. The blade that had hurtled towards Legolas, that he had dodged, was buried in Rhawion's chest. Their eyes met in shock and Rhawion's mouth opened, pained shallow gasps came from his lips. Legolas could not speak. Tenderly, he eased the knife from the wound and clamped his cloak over it, pressed it hard. It was instantly soaked.

Rhawion gave a low moan that was almost lost in the howling wind and lashing rain. He gripped Legolas tightly. The wind rose to a piercing, shrieking wail that seemed to pierce his skull and he could barely think.

'We need to get out,' Legolas shouted over the roar of the furious wind. 'Can you stand or shall I carry you?'

Rhawion half closed his eyes and then said, 'I will stand. You will need your sword-arm free.'

Legolas nodded. 'Ready?' He leaned down, pushing through the wind, and slid his hands beneath Rhawion's arms, hauled the Elf up against him. Rhawion slumped heavily against him and he staggered, drew Rhawion's arm over his shoulder as carefully and gently as he dared. The wind battered the walls, thrashed angrily around the room, threw him back. He leaned forwards, keeping one arm around Rhawion's waist and pressed the other hand against the wound. It was wet beneath his hand and it was not the rain. Too much blood, he thought alarmed, and glanced at Rhawion's frighteningly pale face.

The wind flattened against them, pressed them back and Legolas leaned forwards against the driving rain. A shield clattered violently against the wall and the swords and spears banged against the stone. The rusted sword stirred and then shot along the ground as if it had been kicked towards them.

_Better to leave him and run..._

The furious wind screamed and thumped against the ruined stone walls, then it suddenly tore upwards into the ragged clouds in the sky. The shields and swords abruptly stopped rattling and the silence was as sudden and unnerving as the wind had been.

Legolas stood frozen, staring upwards at the sky and the rain drenched him. The wind had drawn up and up into a spiral, like smoke. He felt Rhawion lean more heavily against him and glanced down at the Elf's bowed head. His cloak and tunic were soaked heavily with blood now.

'Has it gone?' Rhawion asked. He gasped as he drew a breath.

'The wind has gone,' Legolas replied, but he did not think the Nazgûl had gone. He was not even sure that the wind had been the Nazgûl or some sorcery of its Ring...His heart seemed to leap and pound, and his nerves jangled, hands felt fuzzy with it. Rhawion's breaths came shallow and quick and Legolas knew his were the same.

'You said it was only fear,' Rhawion said with a touch of humour and Legolas bit his lip. 'You were right, Legolas. We should not have come here.'

'Ah, it was raining,' said Legolas, and his eyes were fixed now on the shadows beyond the doorway, and it seemed too far suddenly. 'You didn't want to get wet and spoil your hair.'

Rhawion gave a little frightened laugh and Legolas hefted him more closely. 'Ready?' he asked. 'Come then.'

The shadows beyond the doorway were sepia; they shifted, trembled. Like a thin black shroud they slipped along the broken stone floor. It is only fear, he repeated to himself, but it was harder to think that now and he tried to still his thundering heart.

Cold drifted, touched the back of his neck.

_I am here._

Elbereth. Help us. The prayer died on his lips and his breath clouded in the air...warm, he was still warm in this deathly cold.

_Yes...Still warm...Yet._

A scrape of steel came from beyond the doorway. Two Orcs stepped out from the shadows; they looked elongated and even more deformed in the shifting and distorted air..

Orcs too, he thought in sudden despair, feeling Rhawion's heavy weight slumped against him, and he tightened his hold. There was a coldness on his neck. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and started, for the shadows on the edges of the room were oily and black. There, the rain did not fall onto the ground.

Holding Rhawion against him, he shuffled away from the corner, heart pounding in horror. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his back though it was deadly cold and he heard Rhawion give a low moan. Quite suddenly the truth hit him. Was this how he would die? In this terrible place, beneath the dark tower? He knew he could not keep hold of Rhawion and still fight the Orcs. He felt Rhawion's fingers clutch at him tightly as if by holding onto Legolas he might still cling to life.

He hitched Rhawion up a little more, shifting away from the creeping shadow, but it brought him closer to the Orcs. They watched him carefully, unmoving, sabers drawn and small yellow eyes glittering with blood-lust.

'He ain't going to last long that one,' one of the Orcs said in Westron.

Legolas almost jumped. He had not expected that. He held his knife out before him, but it would be useless against their heavy blades.

'Why don't you just drop him and we might let you go? You can run faster then.'

Legolas stared at the Orc. Its thin lips had pulled back to show its sharp, pointed teeth and he remembered the scrap of blue dress they had found at the Orc encampment, and the bones he had seen near the old campfire on the mountain. He heard Laersul in his head then, telling him..._breathe...breathe_...as he had so long ago in the Wood. Would his family ever even know what had happened to him?

The other Orc edged closer, its saber gleamed in the rain that still poured into the small guard room. The Orc sneered and then took a bold step forwards, lightly tapping its saber against Legolas' long white knife. Its small yellow eyes met Legolas', eyes so alien and 'other' that Legolas knew there would no mercy for either of them.

'I will tear out your heart while you still live,' it said. 'I will hold it dripping into your own screaming mouth while I eat it.'

Legolas batted away its blade as if in contempt but his blood had rushed to his head and he felt giddy with it.

The air shifted beside him. He dared not look but slid his gaze sideways to where the dark was colder, deeper.

_Azgarâzir-mîk... They will eat your flesh and chew your bones..._

He hardly dared breathe and the darkness shifted, seemed to tremble like an oily black pond disturbed by a pebble.

Rhawion gave a quiet groan and Legolas felt warm liquid against his thigh. Horror lifted the hairs on his scalp. It is only fear, he told himself, it is only fear, remembering Laersul holding him tightly, forcing Legolas to look into his steady grey eyes even as he had forced Rhawion... He wished Laersul was there now, wanted his calm and steady heartbeat, he had always soothed Legolas. And he knew then, he would never see Laersul again. He felt his fingers tremble and give, his knife clattered on the wet, broken stones. A low growl came from the thick throat of one of the Orcs and the other laughed jeeringly.

'Not so cocky now, _albai._' It kicked his knife away into a corner and grinned horribly, showing its pointed teeth.

Legolas clasped Rhawion to him, the heavy weight dragged him down on one side, unbalanced him, and hampered him. His knife glinted in the corner but it was so far away now. The rusted sword was nearby but too close to the Nazgûl. He could not help the shudder of fear at the stillness of the shadows. He had his other knife in his harness but he would have to reach back and leave his side exposed. He knew he could not fight them. 'Rhawion,' he said softly. 'I have to let you go for a moment.'

He felt Rhawion shift against him and try to stand. 'I know,' he said in a low voice. 'But do not leave me in this place.' Then he gave a quiet groan as Legolas let him slip gently to the ground. He leaned briefly against Legolas' legs before he crumpled slowly on the wet, broken stones.

One of the Orcs laughed and stepped closer, aimed a hard kick at Rhawion but before he could even reach him, Legolas suddenly whirled, his left foot lashed out at the Orc's groin. Already he had drawn his knife and struck out to block the second Orc's blow. He did not pause to hear the muffled cry of the first Orc doubled over, clutching its groin. Swiftly, he shoved the second Orc's saber away with his knife, and spun and kicked the rusted sword up into the air, catching it deftly in his free hand; the heavy saber clashed against the rusted sword; he was shoved back for a moment. The Orc came hurtling at him, whirling its saber and met his sword with a clanging, heavy weight. The Orc kicked out and Legolas leapt back, whirled lightly, and spliced the air in front of him, knife in one hand and the sword in the other, deflecting the blow from the second Orc which was still struggling to its feet, clutching its groin, and blocking the saber of the first Orc as it fell towards Rhawion.

But as he stood before Rhawion, protecting him, a finger of ice stroked down his spine and he gasped in horror. Sudden terror surged around him; he was closed in, the walls were crumbling, crashing around him; a terrible shriek split the air and he turned and slashed his long knife wildly at empty air that smelled of old and empty tombs.

Instantly a heavy blade hammered down; he blocked with the sword just in time but already there was the glint of another blade raised above Rhawion and he lashed out again with his foot and caught the second Orc again. It doubled over snarling and cursing in its own tongue.

Darkness slicked around him, the air trembled and the horror froze him. It gathered near Rhawion and the Elf's face turned slowly towards it, his breath rasping and panicked and loud. Legolas kept his sword outstretched towards the Orcs and edged closer to Rhawion.

_...Leave him. As you did the nimir in Agannâlo...He is meat._

It is hopeless, he realised, but the Elves of the Wood had never given up easily, so he fought the despair and he lunged forwards and slashed at the air. A horrible hissing laugh cut the air and the Orc behind him lunged and caught the slightest nick of his own suede tunic, the faintest slide of steel against his skin and a bead of blood. He did not know but it was enough and when the Orc pulled back, it glanced down at its blade and grinned horribly at the wet crimson smear.

'Glorfindel!' Legolas shouted with all of his strength, hoping against all possibility, against all hope, that maybe, just maybe the glorious warrior might hear him.

The final attack came only an instant later. The Orcs leapt towards him, sabers raised and flashing a frenzy of blows. They attacked from the same side and he saw they tried to push him back, away from Rhawion and knew they would force a surrender from him if they took Rhawion. Their strikes were clumsy and unskilled and he saw how he needed to strike first one, then the other and took a step towards them, his knife and sword crossed before him.

He could hear Rhawion's breath, little panicked gasps but he dared not look away from the Orcs. Instead he edged closer to Rhawion, and pressed his ankle against Rhawion's arm so the Elf knew he had not been abandoned. Rhawion felt so cold, and Legolas almost looked down for he thought he would see the darkness writhing over the Imladrian and the horror that touched him made Legolas want to run. Then a finger of cold air, like ice, stroked his cheek and he cried aloud.

_...Nimir... Azgarâzir's son..._

It was the lightest of touches, the coldest; its breath lifted a strand of hair and stroked his ear and he turned his face away in slow horror from the Darkness that melted and snaked away from Rhawion now, and instead poured around his neck, coiled about his chest and pressed itself over his lean hips, his thighs, wrapped its sinuous formlessness about him and he could not breathe. Fear tightened against his lungs, dread crushed the breath from him and the slow horror froze him so he could not move. The rusted sword dropped from his hand and he wanted to scream but would not. He clung to his knife, gripped it hard, thought of the Wood.

_You should have fled... _

Cold. Cold. Like frost. Ice. He would die now.

A dark tendril of cold twisted around his throat, buried itself in his ears, forced itself into his mouth so he choked. His fingers scrabbled in panic at the darkness squeezing round his belly, slowly forcing the air from his chest, squeezing the blood from his heart and veins, brushed against something small and round. The roulette. And suddenly he felt a surge of warmth, and there was an image of fire, molten steel, the ring of hammers and deep voices chanting, the deep song of the mountain that had withstood time and was not afraid of the Nazgul.

Almost sobbing with sudden hope, he grasped it and struggled against the coiled, crushing darkness, wrenched his arm free and flung the little shining wheel away from him towards the Orcs. A gurgling cry came from the throat of the second Orc and it dropped its saber, clawing uselessly at its neck as the cunning little roulette buried itself, sawing deeper with its tiny teeth. He did not pause to look but slammed both himself and the heavy coiled darkness against the other Orc. Hard, hard he stabbed his knife deep into the Orc, thrust deep, felt the scrape of steel against armour and shoved, hard, harder until the resistance gave way and the knife sank into the Orc's flesh. He pushed deeper, both hands, all his weight though the Nazgûl's shrieking filled his ears and he wanted to clasp his ears and crouch on the ground. He felt his throat hurt but did not know he was screaming.

A blinding flash of white light struck the broken floor of the guardroom and the rain pelted down suddenly. He felt its fury, the dark coils grew, bigger, heavier, filled his mouth, ears, pressed against his eyes...It engulfed him, swallowed him.

He tried, oh how he tried, to fight the terrible pounding fear but the dark reached into his frightened mind and dug its talons into his memories, ripped them from him one by one, reached into his heart and closed its fingers around it...squeezed. Blood burst in his veins, he could feel his eyes bulge...

Another flash of white light and somewhere a loud voice shouted...but stars burst in front of his eyes and choking, struggling to breathe, his chest heaved...he thought his heart had burst...

And suddenly the dark slipped from him, and he fell. The wind was back and tore around the room, thundering against the walls so the room shook and the walls shuddered, stones toppled and crashed around him and he could hear a voice, like a Song. He lifted his head, thinking he must have died and that Námo had come for him. But through the swim of tears, he saw a shining figure - a warrior with a sword of white fire and he stood tall amongst the falling ruins and his voice cried aloud in a language Legolas did not know. Glorfindel.

Legolas shook his head, crawled towards Rhawion and clasped the Elf against him. Stroking the hair back from the Elf's still face, he whispered hoarsely, 'Glorfindel has come,' he whispered. 'Hold on, my friend. We will be safe now.' It must be the rain that was making his face so wet, Legolas thought but he felt the stillness of his blood, and when he struggled heavily to his feet and hauled Rhawion up, he was limp and very cold. Legolas did not want to think about that now so he slung Rhawion's arm over his shoulder and hitched him close.

The wind tore at their long hair, whipped tears into his eyes and his ears burned with the shrieking. It seemed he saw a spectral face, skull-like in the air for a moment, tearing towards him and almost he lost his nerve but he felt the warmth of Glorfindel and heard him shout into the wind. 'Begone foul thing! Cursed of Sauron. There is no fear, no terror you hold that would unseat me, for I am Glorfindel of Gondolin and you are nothing!'

Through the wind that swirled and twisted around them, Legolas saw a blaze of light, white like lightning that flared and burned up in the wind, and he was suddenly elated that here was Glorfindel! And Glorfindel had slain the Balrog and defeated the Witchking of Angmar. The wind howled, shrieked through the cracks in the walls, broke the stones apart so the walls shuddered and wobbled. The ancient weapons still left hanging on the walls shook violently and clattered loose, hurled towards them and Glorfindel merely batted them away with his great sword. It shrieked up into the sky and they saw above them, the sky scattered with eerie greenish flickering lights and sparks of white. It whirled around the ruined tower above them, battering it like some great beast. The thunder boomed across the valley, into the Mountains and the wind rammed against the crumbling tower again and again.

Legolas stared wildly at Glorfindel for a moment. Then he grabbed Glorfindel by the arm, eyes wide. 'We need to get out of here!' he shouted. "It is bringing down the Tower!' He dragged at the Elf lord's arm, but he merely pushed him gently away.

'Go,' Glorfindel shouted over the sound other rushing wind. 'Hide. I refuse to run from this slave of Mordor!'

Legolas looked at him with absolute adoration then and all his fear fell away. He cradled Rhawion gently in one arm and seized his white knife that had fallen near the dead Orc. 'If I am going to die, my lord, it will not be of fear. And I would not be shamed by standing with you.'

Glorfindel turned his beautiful face towards him and smiled and Legolas' breath left him. He would willingly walk through Mordor itself for this lord whose courage and deeds were legendary, and everything they said of him was true.

'Take Rhawion out of here,' he said gently to Legolas and lifted his hand to wipe away something on Legolas' cheek. 'Gimli is on his way and will aid you. I will guard your retreat. I will be close.''

'I cannot leave you,' said Legolas urgently. . Glorfindel stared for a moment and then turned his head to watch as the wind screamed and tore at the walls like a frenzied, maddened beast. The walls shook and crumbled.

'Then I will come with you,' said Glorfindel suddenly and he clasped Legolas' arm briefly, and then shoved him ahead of him. 'It is as you say. This tower is about to fall. Run!'

Legolas stumbled over the broken stones and sprang away from a huge block of stone that crashed to the ground, shattered and showered them with pebbles. The noise was terrifying as the rocks tore themselves apart and a shower of small rocks rained down on his head. He put his hand over Rhawion's head and half lifted, half carried him, stumbled out of the guardroom and into a courtyard, where the rain drenched him immediately.

'Don't stop,' yelled Glorfindel and already the ground was shaking and quaking and there was a terrible roar as the stones ripped apart and crashed around them. 'Keep running!' He felt Glorfindel grab Rhawion's other arm for the weight lifted from him. They ran through the pouring rain and the rocks and stones that pelted them until they broke free of the tower. And then there was grass beneath their feet and the willows were waving madly, their long fronds waving and streaming in the tearing wind, like weeds in the river. Dead twigs and leaves were thrown at them, caught in their hair, scratched their faces and Glorfindel hefted Rhawion up then into his arms and carried him, and Legolas followed.

A stocky figure hurried towards him, panting slightly. Gimli. Never had Legolas been so glad to see a Dwarf!

'Come, Legolas. Quickly before the Tower falls in on itself.'

Legolas turned his head and saw that a sickly greenish light came up from the Tower and there were flashes of red and white amongst it. A dreadful wailing came from the ruins and made the hairs on his arms and back rise. Thunder seemed to come from inside the tower and the earth shook.

'Quickly. Behind these rocks. There is granite beneath and it will be safer than standing here with the shock about to come,' Gimli said and tugged at Legolas' arm. And then the Tower began to fall, the ruined battlements crumbled and rocks and debris fell around the tower, shattered on the ground, and even here they were pelted with small showers of rocks.

Glorfindel grabbed Legolas, pushed him down, below the rocks. Legolas noticed the Dwarf was crouching beside them and thought how strange; it was even funny and he felt a small bubble of laughter well up from some deep part of him. He no longer felt fear, or panic but a strange dislocation, like he was standing outside his own body and watching as Glorfindel carefully let Rhawion down onto the ground.

'He needs to have that wound bound,' said Legolas numbly.

Gimli reached out and touched Rhawion's pale face. He looked up at Legolas with a strange expression and said nothing.

There was a tremendous crash and the earth shook and thundered. Legolas clung to Gimli and felt a strange vibration go through him and stared at the Dwarf; he was humming, deep in his chest and throat the reverberations trembled through Legolas too and he thought of the deep stone, solid rock they were standing upon. Granite, Solid. Strong, good stone. Around them he thought he could see the slate and shale splinter and slip and the gaps appear between the splits filled up with loose stone and rocks. He thought as he looked down at his feet that he could see the blue veins and gold threaded through the rock below and how the ancient rock was steadied by the Dwarf's humming.

Dust rode up in spite of the rain and washed over them, muddying the rain to make a dirty ashen paste that streaked their faces and clothes and hair.

At last it was quiet and Legolas lifted his head and stared at Glorfindel. The warrior's hair was streaked with blackened ash that had mixed in the rain and streaked his hair, his face. A smudge of dirt was on his cheekbone but his blue eyes looked beyond Legolas at Rhawion and he did not move.

Legolas turned as if asleep and touched Rhawion's hair, his face. He was cool and still. He felt heavy like the blood stood still in his veins. And then he knew. _Too late. Ah, too late_. He turned away and bowed his head in shame and pity and covered his eyes with his hand.

tbc

Legolas has seen Smaug up close once, and it was before the Battle of the Five Armies. He went into the Mountain and stole a glance at the sleeping Dragon.

The next chapter is already almost finished- but reviews will encourage me to post early of course:)


	14. Chapter 14 Poisoned

REVIEWERS: You are the lifeblood of writers like me who are spending hours and hours to give you a gift- even if it's not that great. Thank you, you make it worthwhile: gginsc, - OK, if you insist! Melethen, ThisLItttlePiggy, Ninna (Hello! Lovely to hear from you again). MDarKspIrit, sal99, freddie, Melusine, WhereverWinterFell, SapphireThief, MeganR (thank you!) the many guests comments (don't know if you are the same person or different but thank you). For the one commenter who thinks it crass to ask for reviews, please know that these are the ONLY reward frantic writers get. It' feels unkind then when you leave mean-spirited remarks about the act of asking and that is the only reason you comment. Maybe next time you will consider actually leaving just a review?

Beta: My lovely Anarithilien, who gives her time so freely and generously.

Yes, I am sorry about Rhawion. I knew for a long time that was coming and there was no way out. And yes, Legolas is almost embarrassingly smitten with Glorfindel- but its partly his feelings about Elrohir are so confused too.

**Chapter 14 Poisoned**

**2nd November- 4th November.**

Glorfindel had almost dragged Legolas after him as they fled the Arrow and headed up onto the slopes above the old ruined citadel, Gimli urging them on in case the fall of the tower caused the river to rise and flood. In the few hours after, Legolas felt sluggish and unbearably weary, and his arm was a little numb. He couldn't think why that would be; it did not hurt and he had taken no wound, he thought rubbing it. It felt more pins and needles than anything. Glorfindel too had questioned him as they ran and he had shaken his head, unable to speak, for the horror clung to him and he could only think of the clinging dark, the coiling hissing dark that wound about him, that engulfed him, that reached into his memories and ripped each one from him...

When they reached the high ground where Amron anxiously waited, Glorfindel made Legolas rest for a moment while Gimli fashioned a litter for Rhawion's body. Amron was stunned with misery at Rhawion's death and sat near him, holding the lifeless hand and stroking his hair back from his cold face while Glorfindel sat beside Legolas and questioned him over what had happened.

Legolas told what he could, but he could not stop his eyes from drifting over towards Rhawion and the memory of the fight was confused and distant; all he could remember now was the terrible engulfing dark and the moment he thought all would end. In that moment, all sound and light had ceased and there was only the Dark...Emptiness. A vast night that dropped endlessly into nothing. It had swallowed him and only Glorfindel had brought him out. Too terrified for him even think about it, he skirted Glorfindel's questions, was evasive. And it felt disloyal to remember that Rhawion had insisted they go into the tower in the first place.

'So the dagger was torn from the wall and stabbed Rhawion, but you were not hurt?' Glorfindel asked again, looking at him intently. Amron had joined them now and his face was devastated, but he placed his hand gently on Legolas' shoulder and patted him kindly.

That kindness almost undid him and he let out a gasp; Rhawion was _dead_. And Legolas wondered, dreaded, that perhaps the Nazgûl had taken Rhawion's soul as well as his life, that he was trapped in that endless Dark.

'Legolas,' Glorfindel leaned towards him more urgently. 'Were you hurt?'

Legolas breathed through his nose and tried to look away from Rhawion's empty body. 'No,' he said a little more loudly than he intended. 'It was the Nazgûl...it...' He found himself unable to explain, and could not find the words so he merely said, 'It came too close.' He looked away, not wanting Glorfindel to see the tremor in his face, in his hands, as he remembered the coiling dark, how it had swallowed him, and he had looked down into the chasm of emptiness.

'The Orcs?' prompted Glorfindel. 'There were only two Orcs, dead on the floor when I arrived.'

'Yes. Only two.' He shook himself; Laersul would have scolded him for this and with Woodelf practicality, he pushed away the darkness and focused on Glorfindel. 'I think they had escaped the rout earlier and fled this way. They were hiding in the ruins and the Nazgûl drew them out I think.' He passed his hand over his eyes. 'I should have realised...I should have sensed them...' He shook his head in disgust with himself. 'Had it not been for them, we would both have got out.'

Amron and Glorfindel exchanged a quick look. 'Are you sure you were not wounded?' Amron asked and his eyes were worried.

Legolas frowned. Their insistence was irritating and worried him equally. He had already told them he had not been injured. He would have known.

Glorfindel shifted and turned to look Legolas in the eye. 'I am going to insist, Legolas. We only have a little time and I know you say you were not injured, but I want to check. Take off your tunic and let me see for myself.' Glorfindel said and Legolas knew that tone. Sighing, he unbuckled his belt and reached up to the collar of his tunic and unbuttoned it. He shrugged out of his tunic and then pulled his shirt over his head.

Glorfindel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the swirls and coiling dragon, the yäré-carmé. The bruises from the fight at the Orc camp had faded but Glorfindel tutted over the newer purpling on his skin from the hard knocks received from the stones of the falling tower. It was hardly surprising, Legolas thought, Glorfindel would look much the same for he had been behind Legolas as they ran.

Glorfindel leaned over him to look closer and that brought the Elf lord close. Legolas felt Glorfindel's breath on his cheek, then neck, then chest. Long hair drifted over his skin and Glorfindel ran hard, skillful hands over his arms, his chest. Legolas' nipples pebbled under the stroking hands. To his horror, he felt himself stiffen.

Elbereth! Legolas leaned his head back against the tree trunk and half-closed his eyes. He could not trust himself to look at that golden head bent over him and tried hard to think of something else.

'I am going to press the skin now, Legolas.' Glorfindel glanced up and Legolas, with his head back and eyes lifted heaven-wards in an almost-swoon, did not see the faint exasperation on Glorfindel's face.

Glorfindel's hands were running over his chest, down his arms, pressing down on his skin and Legolas bit his lip in frustrated desire. He hoped Glorfindel would not insist on examining his whole body because he really did not think he could hide his shivering arousal. Think of something else, he told himself and tried to conjure up an image of his father...tried to convince himself it was Thranduil bending over him; he would be scolding him for going into the tower and not running away like all the creatures of the hells were after him.

When Glorfindel looked up and said, 'I cannot find anything on your upper body,' Legolas almost squeaked.

'It is too dark and frankly, you are filthy. I can find no cut or wound, and there is no blood, but your skin feels hot,' he said, frowning slightly. 'Do you feel any nausea or sickness?'

Legolas opened his eyes. 'I feel quite warm,' he confessed and knew he blushed.

Amron gave a snort. 'Let _me_ see, my lord. I am sure if there is anything to find I will.'

Glorfindel looked irritated and embarrassed. Legolas thought he must be fed up with the number of young warriors who swooned if he so much as looked at them.

'I will want to check you properly in the morning when it is light,' Glorfindel said. 'I cannot see well here and you need to wash this Orc blood off you.' He prodded impatiently at smudges of black and rust-brown marks. Legolas frowned, uncomprehending at first until he realised that, in places, blood had soaked through his clothes. A dark stain had spread upon his tunic and soaked redly through his shirt. He frowned and looked at his chest. There were smudges of rust-brown; that was not Orc blood. It was not his either.

He looked down. Rhawion's. All this blood on his clothes, on his skin, was Rhawion's. There was so much. Of course, he thought numbly, it was where Rhawion had clung to him and beseeched him not to leave him alone in that place.

He felt the world tilt and spin, and then there was warmth and quiet murmured words of kindness. He felt Glorfindel hold him steady and he looked up into the blue eyes that were concerned and kind, and Legolas found himself wanting to weep.

'You did everything you could and more,' Glorfindel said quietly. Legolas bowed his head.

The dark was closing in, and he felt the brush of night on his face, on his lips and shivered. In the cold, he thought of the shadows pressing close, the hiss of the Nazgûl pressing against his skin. It had killed Rhawion. Was Rhawion lost in the empty dark?

He was aware that Glorfindel was still speaking but he felt distant and otherworldly. '...we will meet up with the rest of our party soon I hope, and I want Elladan to look at you,' Glorfindel was saying.

'Yes,' Legolas answered, hardly listening, and looked down at the ground again. A spider scuttled through the stiff blades of winter grass...Its thin legs clambered over the tiny stones and he watched as it stopped and waved its legs and then began to spin a gossamer thread that it wound about the grass. By morning, every blade of grass would have silver thread waving over it, he thought, and he wondered how it survived in the winter.

Glorfindel was looking away down into the valley of Phellanthir and his eyes were unfocused. Legolas hung his head; he had disappointed Glorfindel, he knew, and Rhawion was lost. His arm hurt and he supposed, now that he considered it, the Nazgûl had touched him there perhaps? A sliver of memory, a slicing cut...His fingers drifted over his arm but the memory floated off before he could quite grasp it.

At last Glorfindel spoke again. 'I would let you rest properly but I fear that the Orcs you killed in the Tower, and the camp we found earlier might be merely the harbingers of a greater army.' He sighed and pulled at his silver vambraces etched with bronze and copper. 'The destruction of the Tower will attract hordes from the Mountains.'

He rose to his feet and held out his hand to Legolas. That simple act of kindness, of acceptance was almost Legolas' undoing.

He walked behind Glorfindel, and Amron and Gimli took up their burden. Time indeed to go home, he thought. He missed his family, and wanted his father's comfort, Laersul's approval and Thalos' teasing laughter. It was not the first time he had been so close to death, but it was the first time he had ever been touched by the Nazgûl, and he felt corrupted by it, like a stench had crept into his lungs and suffused his blood and flesh. _And Rhawion was dead_. He could not stop thinking it and found his fingers plucking at the green suede of his tunic restlessly. _We should have run,_ he thought, _I should not have pinned Rhawion down. We could have fled, could have got out perhaps..._

He did not know he let out a small cry of distress. A sharpness of pain lanced through his arm and into his chest and he stopped and shook his head as if he could rid himself of it.

He was barely aware at first of the hand upon his elbow, supporting him, moving him onwards, holding him when he almost stumbled. It was only when he did not crash to the ground that he realised and looked up at the beautiful concerned face of Glorfindel. He stumbled on, light-headed.

'I am sorry,' he kept saying and even Gimli shook his head and looked away. He saw Glorfindel tap his fingers impatiently and then push him gently on.

0o0o

Glorfindel pushed them on, as far from the Arrow as they could get and as quickly. Inexorably clouds rolled across the sky and Legolas kept glancing up; he felt a strange fear and thought the Nazgûl must be close, slithering through the shadows, drawing evil to it, gathering storm clouds. He stumbled onwards, barely registering when Glorfindel held his elbow or supported him. He looked often at the still figure of Rhawion that Amron and Gimli carried between them. But whenever Legolas tried to take his turn carrying the litter, Amron gently but firmly pushed him away, or Gimli rumbled kindly that he was a Dwarf and much better at this kind of thing than a Woodelf. Legolas frowned. He remembered a Dwarvish roulette sawing its way through the throat of an Orc and was confused. When did that happen? And Glorfindel, seeing his confusion, kept him alongside and near. And truth be told, Legolas was glad for he felt strangely distanced and his heart pounded as they hurried away from the Arrow.

Amron finally persuaded Glorfindel to stop once more near a quiet bend in the river where there were shallows and pools. Glorfindel would not permit any to bathe, even Legolas, for there were not enough of them to watch but he told Legolas he would look at him more fully in the daylight and Legolas did not protest. Instead he sank gratefully to the ground, huddled in his cloak and rested his head on his knees.

In the darkness before dawn, they sat silently with no fire or light. Only a few words spoken to share the lembas, to pass around a flask of miruvor that Glorfindel insisted they all drink, and then the quiet rumbling of the Dwarf's snores as he napped, leaning against a tree trunk, arms crossed over his broad chest and legs stretched out before him.

Amron was on watch and stood quietly above them on a slight rise. Legolas could see his outline against the slowly lightening sky. His own head pounded and he wanted to sleep. His arm hurt and when he pressed it, the skin felt like fire. He rubbed it slowly, unable to recall when he had wrenched his muscles, for surely that is why his arm and now his shoulder hurt? It must have been when he pulled Rhawion away from the Nazgûl.

He glanced towards the litter and felt his chest squeeze when he saw how pale and still Rhawion was. _He is dead_, he reminded himself. _I should not have stopped him from running...I should have stopped him going in there in the first place..._

He heard Glorfindel shift next to him and the warmth of the warrior's body moved closer to him. 'It is the shock,' he said softly. 'You have faced the Nazgûl and we have all lost our friend. We could have lost you too but for your daring and courage, your coolness in the face of great danger and terror.'

Legolas wanted to shake his head and deny it but he did not have the energy. Instead he looked at the ground, at the tiny blades of grass, at the dull earth that was slowly drawing into itself to sleep, for winter. Cold seeped into his bones then, and he wondered what it would be like to be buried in the cold ground. And then he shook himself; Elves did not do that. Men did, and he was not a Man.

o0o0o

Legolas heard them first; three horses approaching from the North-West. They cantered, and galloped where they could down the grassy slopes, restless prancing hooves of two horses and the steady plodding of a third. It was Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond, Legolas thought, his heart sinking further. He thought how Aragorn had already accused him of failing in his trust, and Elrohir hated him for releasing the Orc to death. And now they had lost one of their own and Legolas had not done enough.

It was Amron though, who spotted them first at sunrise where they reined in their horses and paused high up on a ridge overlooking the valley of the Arrow. The breaking sunlight glinted richly on their silver stirrups and bits, and swirled in the mithril runes on their shields. A crimson glow touched the edge of one shield and the wind swept their long black hair back from their pale and lovely faces, pulled their cloaks back and swirled them. A moment's pause and the black horses shook their long manes and flicked their tails while their riders stared down at the small camp, and then they poured down the slope like a wave, their hair streaming out behind them, long streams of night silk. Legolas barely noticed Aragorn on the steady grey horse pounding heavily along behind them.

The Sons of Elrond drew their horses in a tight circle before the camp, and their black steeds tossed their heads and pawed the ground. One of the brothers slid down from his horse and greeted Glorfindel with a clasp. 'We have news,' he said, pulling off his black leather gloves. He glanced around unsmiling and then his gaze caught upon the litter and his face froze. 'I see you also have news, but more grave,' he said. 'How is it that Rhawion has come to be injured?'

His brother's horse stamped a hoof once and the wind lifted its rider's long black hair. 'He is not injured,' he said and his voice was grim and stern. 'He is dead.' He swung himself down from his horse and strode over to the litter and Amron moved aside. The Son of Elrond knelt and placed his hand over Rhawion's forehead and shook his head. 'This is sad news indeed. How did this happen?' He turned to look at Glorfindel.

'We found the last Nazgûl in the Tower. There were Orcs there too. Phellanthir is destroyed,' Glorfindel replied. He stroked the nose of the black horse and it huffed quietly at him.

Legolas looked away, glad that Glorfindel had not mentioned his part though he felt cowardly for it.

'Ah. We saw the lights in the sky yesterday. We came as fast as we could,' said the other twin. He came to stand beside his brother and looked down at Rhawion's pale face. He leaned down and stroked Rhawion's long hair back from his face and then reached to the brooch on his cloak and unpinned it. He pulled his sable cloak from his shoulders and cast it over Rhawion, pulled it gently over him and covered his face.

Legolas turned away. He did not see Elrohir, whose cloak it was, look at him and frown.

'We will remain here for another night. We should find a suitable place to camp,' Glorfindel said. If he was as weary as Legolas, it did not show in his voice; his face was still as strong and fearless as ever, and the light in his eyes was undimmed. He did not say they had a mortal with them, and he did not say that he wanted to assure himself that Legolas was really uninjured.

'There is a good place over there, just down the slopes to the East,' Aragorn said, dismounting and stroking his horse's neck. 'I have used it several times. There are trout in the river there.'

Gimli and Amron picked up their burden once again and followed Aragorn. Elrohir's face was stone when Legolas trudged wearily past him and stumbled, caught again by Glorfindel.

0o0o

They made camp in a shallow dip sheltered by oak trees and near the riverbank. A shallow sandy beach was below them and they lay Rhawion's litter a little way away from the camp but within sight. Glorfindel unbuckled his great sword and rolled his shoulders, looking towards Legolas as he did.

'I will fetch kindling to make a fire,' Gimli volunteered and stood, stretching his arms.

'I will go with you. I need to make myself useful,' Legolas volunteered with unseemly haste, and although Amron gave him a look, no one said anything about him wishing to make himself scarce.

'And then you _will _go and bathe and check you have taken no wound,' Glorfindel said severely to Legolas. But he did not insist that Legolas go right then for the sons of Elrond were already leading their horses to the river.

'I do not need a guard,' Gimli said but it was not unkind. He looked at Legolas with his deep brown eyes and there was a glint in them, of fire and memory, and he murmured quietly, 'But _you _might. And I have no more roulettes to wager for I seem to have lost mine somewhere.'

'It is buried deep in the throat of an Orc,' replied Legolas and he felt the tension in his throat ease as the darkness ebbed. The Dwarf's strong presence reassured him strangely. 'And I was mightily grateful for it, friend.'

o0o0o

All the time they were collecting firewood, a feeling of nausea grew for Legolas and his head began to ache too, the way it did sometimes in the South when he had been too near Dol Guldûr for too long. Gimli glanced at him more than once and asked him what was wrong and he pushed away the nausea, the ache. But he could not ignore the prickling between his shoulder blades like he was being watched and he stopped often to turn around and listen. All he could hear was the murmur of the wind in the trees, and the low voices of their companions. He knew their Songs were twining about his but he blocked them off. He did not think he could bear to feel their sorrow.

He was determined to seek out Aragorn, preferring to approach the Man rather than the mighty Sons of Thunder as Glorfindel had suggested. He felt sure they would spurn him. He and Gimli dropped their firewood near the small fire that Amron was trying to coax to life. Amron had gathered twigs and dry wood for kindling and was holding a lighted bunch of sticks and twigs beneath a larger pile and cursing under his breath as it would not light.

Glorfindel was returning from the river and had clearly been bathing for the ashen streaks were gone from his hair and face and he wore a clean shirt and no tunic. Legolas felt a moment of disappointment that he had not been to bathe at the same time but he saw Amron grinning at him so he glared back. But it was half-hearted so he dropped the firewood as clumsily as he could and just out of Amron's reach.

'You should ask him if he'll wash your hair for you,' Amron murmured, smiling. He grunted as he reached for a piece of kindling and realised what Legolas had done, tutted irritably.

'I might just do that!' Legolas relented and pushed the firewood towards Amron with his foot. And then the wind fluttered the edges of the sable cloak that one of the brethren had cast over Rhawion and he felt a pang of sorrow.

When he turned back, he saw that Glorfindel's hair gleamed dark gold and lay down his back like a shining curtain. Glorfindel had obviously dressed in haste and was not quite dry because his shirt clung to him. His breeches were snug fitting and damp too...Legolas wished he felt more himself for he would have made a play right then for Glorfindel. He realised he was staring in a manner most unbecoming when he heard Amron snort.

'Legolas, go and get cleaned up,' Glorfindel said as if completely unaware, hanging his damp tunic out on a low hanging tree branch. He had turned his back to Legolas so he could ogle the tight breeches over Glorfindel's buttocks and watch how his shirt stretched over the broad shoulders. 'Make sure you look carefully and check for any small cuts we may have missed. Aragorn is already there. Get him to look you over.' Glorfindel shook out his cloak now and brushed it with his hand.

'Off you go, Legolas,' said Amron with a wide smile, throwing a sliver of soap at him. 'The views aren't as good in the river but it's a lovely morning. Don't be too long. I'd like to have a bath before night fall.'

Legolas bared his teeth in a threatening grin at Amron who laughed delightedly. Gimli dropped his firewood and carefully picked over the kindling he had brought. He selected one twig carefully and placed it on the camp fire that Amron was trying unsuccessfully to get going and said unhelpfully, 'That fire's not going. You need to pay attention, Amron, instead of teasing. He's no match for you right now anyway.'

Amron said something back but Legolas was not listening now, for Glorfindel had turned to look over his shoulder and frowned at Legolas, jerking his head to indicate that Legolas should indeed get a move on.

'Check for any small injuries or scratches that could be poisoned.'

Legolas nodded, even if he did not suspect an injury, he would be glad to wash the ashen paste that streaked his skin and he thought cold water might clear his head and relieve the nausea. But more, he wanted to scour the sensation of sticky blackness from his body, to wash away the lingering touch of cold horror from when the Nazgûl had engulfed him, and he had been swallowed by the empty Dark.

The river rushed over rocks and boulders, white rimmed and strong, but the bank dipped inwards at one point, forming shallows and pools and he squatted by the water's edge to wash his face. He still had the sensation of being watched; his nerves prickled and his heart pounded in his chest as he splashed clean, cold water over his face.

Aragorn was already there with his back to the riverbank, and therefore to Legolas. The Man had stripped to his shirt and breeches and stood thigh deep in the water. He looked over his shoulder at Legolas' arrival and nodded a greeting but he did not speak otherwise and turned his back to Legolas to continue his own ablutions.

Legolas unbuckled his belt and pulled his tunic over his head carefully for his shoulder pulled now and his arm suddenly throbbed. He used the opportunity to stare at the Man since he faced the other direction and seemed so absorbed. And he was curious.

Aragorn was tall and strong, Legolas could see, more so than other Men he had met, and there was a lightness and grace about him that was almost elvish. Legolas was pleased that he had worked out that as the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn must be descended from Elrond's brother, Elros and therefore had the blood of Thingol Greycloak in his veins. But that was as far as he could get; the subsequent line of Kings of Men had seemed dry and dull and he had always encouraged Galion to tell the tales of battles and of heroes instead. Galion's version of history did not always quite tally up with what his father made him read and he was trying to remember it as he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it carelessly on the ground. He promised himself he would take the time to pull one of those biographies from the shelves of his father's study on his return, probably the one holding down the corner of the map of Eriador. Pulling the thin linen shirt over his head, he dropped that on top of his tunic.

Aragorn stood thigh deep in the water and sluiced water over his head and shoulders with cupped hands. He pushed his hair back from his face then and turned to look at Legolas. He stared for a moment like he had never seen a Woodelf before. Perhaps he had not, thought Legolas, half-naked and with the yäré-carmé swirling around his chest and broad, muscled shoulders.

'You are an accomplished archer,' Aragorn said a little awkwardly and Legolas looked at him. Of course he was. That's what he was, an archer. But he could see the Man was trying to be friendly and so he smiled back.

'And you are an accomplished swordsman,' he returned, hopping unsteadily on one leg to pull first one boot off and then the other. He dropped each of his boots on the hard earth so he stood only in his breeches. He paused, wondering if it would be easier to wash his breeches if he kept them on and saw that Aragorn had taken off his shirt and was rinsing it in the river, but kept his breeches on. So he waded too into the water and rubbed the sliver of soap between his hands and over his thighs. He thought Aragorn was staring and tried to ignore it. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt and the water looked dark and viscous.

He stood for a moment looking down at it and trying to think what this reminded him of. There was something he was supposed to do as well, but he could not remember that either. His nerves felt unsettled and he looked up at the sky for it seemed to him to grow darker. There was a strange smell in his nostrils and his blood felt warm, pounded in his veins. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he searched the shadows that crowded around the river even in the morning light. He felt a piercing gaze like a knife in his back.

'Do you hear something?' Aragorn waded towards him and looked out over river to the far shore. Legolas shook his head.

'I do not know. I feel we are being watched,' he replied and he suddenly felt drained and tired. He found himself rubbing his arm and it felt sore. He lifted his arm experimentally and found the skin pulled and blood pulsed.

'My brothers are on watch,' said Aragorn dismissively and Legolas grimaced. Of course. Elrohir's hatred of him would be tangible. That must be it. Although whether the power of the Peredhel was enough to make him physically sick was questionable.

'Let me look at you,' Aragorn said and he moved closer to Legolas. Legolas lifted his head to see that Aragorn was staring at him intently. Suddenly the Man was holding his arm. Legolas looked down at where his hand lay on his arm. 'You have blood on you,' Aragorn said, holding his arm and twisting it a little to look. 'Not Orcish blood either.'

Legolas looked down. Indeed there was a smear of red, even where he had washed it clean. 'I have been feeling strange,' he said. 'But I did not think I had been injured. I thought it was the Nazgûl affecting me still.'

Aragorn nodded. 'True but this is not the Black Breath. Let me see.'

Legolas was not fool enough to protest. Any warrior was a fool to ignore any wound, any scratch no matter how small and so he lifted his arm to look more closely at it. He rubbed water over the skin and the black smudges and rust-brown that was Rhawion's blood washed away to show a small nick, scabbed already. But the skin was puckered around the edges though there was a faint black tinge. He bent his head down to try to sniff it and there was the telltale smell of dankness and decay.

'Poison,' Aragorn said shortly and Legolas stared at it.

Fool, he scolded himself. It was not as if he had never been poisoned before and he should have known better. It was a very small wound though, he thought, and not much poison could have entered. He would probably shake it off quickly. He turned and waded back to the shore. Leaning down to scoop up his shirt, he suddenly felt dizzy and swayed. Already Aragorn was there and catching him, swiftly pulled a lace from his own shirt and tied it as a tourniquet around Legolas' arm. Legolas stared at him wide-eyed. Surely it could not be so serious? He recognised some of the symptoms of poisoning now, the dizziness and fluttery breath, the smell of the wound.

'Can you walk?' Aragorn asked and Legolas nodded, surprised. The Man scooped up his boots and tunic and thrust them at Legolas, and then grabbed his own clothes and followed Legolas back to the camp.

Their companions looked up as Aragorn hurried Legolas along. The Elf's breeches were soaked and he was barefoot, half-naked, and carrying his boots and his tunic in one hand and the wet bloody shirt in the other.

'Elladan! Quickly,' Aragorn shouted and Legolas, hearing the urgency in his voice, was alarmed. He had survived spider venom often enough in the woods and this was a tiny nick, not a great gash with the stinger left in. 'Sit quietly please, Legolas,' the Man instructed, 'and do not move. The tourniquet will stop it from spreading further. I do not know how far it has already spread.'

Legolas felt a strange disorientation, a distance like he was watching someone else. And then Glorfindel crouched beside him and Amron was looking up at him with anxiety. 'I have had a headache, some shortness of breath,' he told Aragorn and tried to stay calm. 'I thought it was the after-effect of the Nazgûl,' he said weakly.

Aragorn looked at him and nodded, but his grey eyes were worried and Legolas thought suddenly that this was no spider venom. Aragorn lifted his arm gently and turned it towards Glorfindel to see the small cut, and Legolas's alarm grew for it seemed that simply in the time they had returned from bathing, the wound was angry and puckered and his skin felt like it was on fire and painful to the touch. Legolas watched as Glorfindel peered at it and brought his face close to it, sniffed and made a face.

'_Lhach-rhaw_.' Glorfindel frowned and then Legolas was aware of a flask of some sort being held to his lips and obediently he tipped his head back and drank the thick liquid, expecting it to be some vile medicine. But it was miruvor, clear and refreshing and he immediately felt revived. His eyes cleared and he looked at Glorfindel; his lovely face was clear, smooth, flawless. His intense blue eyes that had seen so much regarded Legolas anxiously, and those full lips were lusciously close. Legolas swallowed, licked his own lips which felt dry and papery.

'Over here, Elladan!' Aragorn's voice sounded urgent and close. 'He has a cut on his arm. A blade must have gone through the tunic and just caught him.'

One of the sons of Elrond, Elladan he assumed, crouched before Legolas, placed a cool hand on his brow and tutted. 'Your arm is hot. You should have mentioned it.'

'I did not realise,' he heard himself answer but no one seemed to take any notice.

Elladan lifted Legolas' arm and stared at it for a moment, then he lay his hand over the wound and bowed his head. It was unlike anything Legolas had ever experienced. His arm already felt hot but where Elladan's hand touched him, it was cool and he felt a calm ease through his veins, his limbs. It seemed to him then that there was a veil of blue cast over him and it cooled him, settled peace and calm throughout his body.

'It happens, Elladan,' Aragorn was saying. 'Battle fever is in the blood and you do not feel a wound. It has happened to you more than once.' He squatted beside Legolas and peered into his eyes as he continued speaking to his brother. 'And you have felt the Nazgûl, the Black Breath. You have been in Mirkwood and been lost.'

Elladan ignored him. Instead he said curtly, 'Bring him closer to the fire.'

Legolas felt strangely dispassionate. They discussed him as if he was not there and thought it was time to assert himself. 'I am not cold.'

Elladan lifted an eyebrow and looked so like his father that Legolas almost laughed. He thought he might be a little hysterical.

'I will need fire,' Elladan told him seriously, and Legolas felt alarm creeping over him.

'Why is this suddenly so urgent?' he demanded. After all, he had got this tiny cut yesterday and run from Phellanthir with little or no effect. Surely it could not be worse than a spider bite? 'I have been poisoned before,' he said. 'I know what it does but this is a tiny scratch. It will make me sick, I know, but I will recover._'_

'This is no spider-venom. This is _lhach-rhaw,_' Elladan replied as if that said everything and Legolas saw Amron turn away with his hand to his mouth so he thought that it must be bad. 'It lies dormant for a while, and then it kills very quickly, very suddenly. It is agonising. Usually Orcs use it in their initial attack and then withdraw. They wait for the poison to take effect and then launch a second attack.'

Legolas stared at him in horror. He had had this wound last night! And suddenly the Orc's satisfied face appeared before him, glancing down at a red smear on his sword; Legolas had thought it was Rhawion's blood, but it had been his own.

'Aragorn, are you ready?' Elladan called back over his shoulder and there was a muffled curse and grunt from Aragorn. 'Amron, pass me my pack.'

Legolas was aware of a purposeful quiet, an intense focus and that Glorfindel and Amron had withdrawn and let Elladan and Aragorn do their work. He wondered where Elrohir was and thought it was better he was not there for he would be willing Legolas to die, he was sure.

Elladan turned and rummaged in his pack and then without a word, grasped Legolas' arm again and peered at it.

'This will hurt,' he said, 'but we need to be quick. The _lhach-rhaw_ creeps quietly through the blood stream and strikes suddenly, usually before there is time for an antidote.' He glanced up and met Legolas' wide stare. 'I am sorry,' he said sincerely and that more than anything alarmed Legolas.

Elladan rubbed some liquid over the skin first and that numbed it. Legolas was used to this, thought it was similar to the astringent, _or tire,_ used in the Wood. Elladan tested the tourniquet that Aragorn had tied, loosened it, moved it a little higher up and retied it again. 'We cannot know how far any poison has travelled. If it has reached your heart there may be no saving you.' Elladan glanced up at that and met Legolas' wide green eyes. He seemed to linger for a moment and then dropped his eyes back to the wound.

Legolas looked past Elladan to see that Aragorn had a bundle of some sort of woolen material and a number of small glass cups laid out before him on a flat stone. Aragorn approached Elladan and then dropped into a crouch beside him. The Man looked at Legolas and smiled briefly. 'This is the best way we know for drawing poison. It has always worked.' He was reassuring, calm, and when he put his hand on Legolas' shoulder it did not burn or hurt. 'You may not have felt it strongly yet, and if we have caught it in time what will happen now as we draw it is you will feel its effects. But it will not grow stronger, just more intense. You will feel all the symptoms and then it will get better.'

'So I felt nothing and now, in purging me of the poison, you will make me feel worse,' Legolas said wryly.

Aragorn gave him a sudden smile. 'Yes. I fear that is exactly what will happen.' He turned his back to Legolas and busied himself with something. Legolas could not see what the Man was doing but he heard the clink of glass and thought of the small glass cups the Man had set out. There was the smell of burning wool and he wondered if the bundle of wool had been put into the fire for some reason.

Elladan had turned away again and was opening up a small roll of velvet. Within gleamed a number of tiny knives and small metal implements. Legolas frowned a little and looked away. In the Wood, warriors and healers simply sucked and spat the poison unless it was a risk to themselves to do this; then they laid on as many poultices as they could and dosed the injured with medicines and let you get on with it. Most Elves recovered, and those that didn't usually had other wounds as well.

Elladan held a small lancet over the fire and Legolas found himself watching with interest in spite of himself. 'Will you pierce the wound with this?' he asked.

Elladan nodded briefly. 'Yes. It will hurt. See how the flesh is puckered and blackened at the edges? And it radiates outwards, red. But first we do this.' He turned his head slightly towards Aragorn and held out his hand into which Aragorn placed one of the small glass cups. Inside the glass was a flame and he squinted at it, trying to see how that had been achieved but he could only see a small blue flame dancing inside the glass. Swiftly Elladan clamped the glass cup straight over the wound. Legolas squirmed for a moment for it burned and was like fire but he forced himself still.

'This will draw the poison,' Elladan said quietly and held the cup tightly against the cut until the flame gradually died. With his other hand he held the small knife over the fire so the blade became red with heat. 'That has taken out all the air from the glass,' he said to Legolas, and he nodded, without understanding why that would be important. 'It creates a vacuum and that will draw the blood.' He looked up at Legolas for a moment and then said, 'Are you ready? This will hurt and in drawing the poison, you _will_ feel its effects quite suddenly. You may hallucinate and you will feel intense pain. It is...' He paused and then said, 'It is like a live thing. It fights the healing.'

Legolas nodded and then braced himself for the knife was red hot now and Elladan held it poised above the wound. Then suddenly and swiftly, he punctured a deep incision into the skin and with his forefinger and thumb pinched the cut open. Blood oozed from the cut, dark crimson, almost black and laced with a venomous yellow-green pus. Elladan had been right. It felt like fire and Legolas hissed slightly in pain and shifted. He closed his eyes and endured. He felt something circle the cut and opened his eyes looking down. Elladan had placed a second hot glass cup over the wound and again, inside the glass was some sort of wool which was burning. Incredibly it seemed to soak black from the wound.

'Another please, Aragorn.' Elladan was hunched over the wound now and held out his hand to Aragorn who, Legolas saw, was heating a third glass, holding it on a forked stick over the fire. Elladan suddenly whipped off the second glass and stuck the third over the wound and this time he held it for longer.

Aragorn took the used glass cups and with a stick he prised the wool from the cup and threw it into the fire. It sizzled and black smoke poured from the wool as it incinerated. Legolas felt everything tilt for a moment as the blackened woolen threads twisted and writhed like worms. Then he felt sick and retched, and felt someone lift his hair and a small bowl was put under his chin and a cool hand over his brow. Black liquid spewed from his belly and a taste of bile and sourness flooded his mouth. His stomach spasmed and he retched again. The glass was burning his skin and he squirmed, for the pain suddenly became unendurable.

He was aware of Elladan murmuring in a low voice, 'Elrohir, hold him still. The fifth cup now and it will draw the poison out.'

And then he felt a sudden heat scorch through him like flames. He gave a low cry and his blood surged. He fell back against a broad chest that steadied him, into arms that held him safe and still. He was on fire and retched again, feeling darkness boiling in his blood, pounding through his body, churned through his veins by his treacherous heart. And then he was surrounded by a crimson flame but this did not burn him. Instead he thought, in the venomous fever, that the crimson flame fought the poison.

His heart gave a great leap in his chest and his blood suddenly thrummed in a rhythm like battle drums. His skin tingled like lightning had passed over him and there was the scent of snow on the mountains. It seemed to Legolas that the stars were suddenly huge and bright and the river turned molten, like mercury in the strange light. Elrohir's eyes were mercury, liquid steel, like the river. And when Elrohir lay his hand upon the hot skin, Legolas thought he would faint. He let his head fall back in an ecstasy. He languished, let it pour over him and the heat between them ignited.

_He thought he saw himself standing on a barren plain, ashen and with heaps of slag and stone. Grey lowering skies pressed down over him, and silence...He saw Elrohir stride swiftly up the slopes of ash and stone, pushing his way through faceless panicked soldiers, and Legolas lifted his head. His eyes widened, lips parted and before he could speak, Elrohir was before him, hand cupping the back of Legolas' head and brought him close. Elrohir stared for a moment into his eyes and pulled Legolas closer still, pressing his mouth against his, pushing between his lips as he gasped and filling his mouth with his own tongue. Wishing there was nothing between them. It was fierce, brief, passionate. He heard eagles soar above the snow...and Legolas heard his thoughts: This, this is what love is, he thought. Pure. The Song amplified._

_'I will find you,' said Elrohir, pulling back and gazing into Legolas' eyes that were full of wonder. 'When this is done, I will find you.' He pushed a loose hair back from Legolas' face. He did not pause but turned and strode down the slope. Men parted for him and turned their faces towards him in admiration for he was fell and fair and had stood alone before the hordes of Mordor..._

Legolas rubbed his face with his good, free hand, laughing. He was poisoned certainly, and hallucinating, for he could not, under any circumstances, not if they truly did stand before the Gates of Mordor with less than an acorn's chance on ice, ever imagine Elrohir Elrondion kissing him. He wondered how he knew it was Elrohir and dismissed the idea completely...but he did notice the tremble of Elrohir's hand as he laid it upon Legolas' arm. But that, he thought, must be because he wanted to kill him and had instead to help heal him. And it amused him, the irony, so he laughed again.

0o0o

He awoke occasionally, shaking with fever and sweating. Dimly he thought he saw shadows of the poison and fever, two black horses throwing up their heads and tossing their long, black silk manes, and he thought the Sons of Thunder had been transformed into those black horses, their dark eyes turning on him and whickering softly to each other. But he knew that was just the fever. He watched them move about the camp, long black hair and steel-grey eyes like mercury, like starlight, like shot lightning... He shook his head. It was the fever, he thought dully. It had made him hysterical and full of imaginings. The firelight cast red and black shadows on the faces around him and he drew away from them in fear, for they were like demons of shadow and flame and he felt a terrible foreboding.

Gimli sat with him and wiped away the sweat from his face and gave him cool water. The steady song of the mountain soothed him. It was like the deep places of the earth, still and silent for ages and ages, disturbed only by a single drop of water. And he heard the steady beat of the heart of the Mountain, the liquid gold heart, and the steady bellows that was the Dwarf's breathing.

He dreamed...

_Long hair, like black silk, falling over a strong shoulder, hands more used to swords than caresses, entwined in his and a strong and noble face smiling at him, love-light in the grey eyes that were molten like mercury..._

He knew he was delirious because it was Elrohir Elrondion he saw. It was like the vision earlier of them standing before the Gates of Mordor...and the poison was shivering through his flesh and melting his memories so he no longer knew what was real and what was a dream...

tbc

Notes:

_lhach-rhaw_- flame in the body literally. A violent and vicious poison introduced into the bloodstream by a tiny incision can be enough to incapacitate an Elf.


	15. Chapter 15 Lost Souls

Particular thanks to Glorfindel for her expertise in medical practice and advice/ help in this chapter.

Beta: Fab Anarithilien. Thank you for your inspiring story about Aragorn and Legolas, _Pledge to Duty._ Showed me the way!

And thank you to everyone for the reviews. It DOES make a difference and stops me from putting down my figurative pen and doing something else instead. ObiDawn, Sarah, Another Guest, ninna56, megan, Melethen, Melusine, freddie, Sapphirethief, WhereverWinterFell, aRedBaroness, ThisLittelPiggy, KyMahelei. And **Guest**- this one's for you!

Sorry it has taken so long to get this posted but on the bright side, I have two more chapters pretty much done.

**Summary**: Legolas joined the scouting expedition to search for the Nazgul along the banks of the Bruinen. Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond had been despatched by Glorfindel to warn the Men of the Angle about the Orcs they have just slain. Glorfindel led the rest of the group, Gimli, Legolas and two Imladrian warriors, Rhawion and Amron, to Phellanthir where they hunted the Nazgul. Glorfindel warned them to stay away from the Tower and to avoid engaging the Nazgul. However when it started raining, Rhawion persuaded Legolas to take shelter in the Tower and Legolas followed him. There they encountered the Nazgul, and two Orcs. Rhawion was killed and Legolas attacked. He was wounded by one of the Orcs and the wound turned out to be poisoned. In the last chapter, Elladan and Elrohir attempted to heal him.

**Chapter 15. Lost Souls**

**7th November **

Gimli sat quietly watching the fire and humming under his breath. He tapped out the little signs of the Iglishmêk against the stony ground, letting his fingers trace over the small nuggets of minerals amongst the stones and feeling where there were veins of agate and quartz below the ground, deep in the earth. He dug his fingers a little into the dusty thin soil and felt where it would be good to dig should he wish, half closed his eyes and saw how the rich ore was buried beneath, how the caves opened up in the deepness beneath their feet and how the river had carefully worn away caverns and long winding tunnels in the rock...He breathed in and smelt the cold freshness of stone, of the granite and slate and the seams of agate...

'Gimli?'

He looked up. It was the Man, Aragorn, who was the Heir of Isildur, whatever that meant. Gimli pursed his lips. He was a good Man whatever his ancestors had done and Gimli had a liking for his quiet ways.

'I can relieve you of your watch if you wish to rest,' Aragorn said.

Gimli was quite happy watching over Legolas. He had grown fond of the Elf during their brief journey and he felt he had more of a bond with him than with anyone else in their small company, partly because they were both outsiders and partly because of the incident with what Gimli thought of as Elrohir's Orc. So he shook his head and folded his arms.

'You get some rest yourself Aragon. You have been helping those two sons of Elrond and that took some time. And you have scouted and hunted for our supper. All I have done is sit here and watch that he doesn't choke himself.'

'Hardly true my friend, but if you are comfortable there, I will not dislodge you,' Aragorn shifted the sword at his hip and then stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

'Maybe in two hours,' Gimli agreed, thinking the Man could barely keep his eyes open as it was. 'Then I can sleep. For the moment, I am awake and thinking.'

Aragorn stepped away then, smiling, and rolled himself in his blanket and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

Gimli ran his fingers through his beard, feeling its luxuriant silkiness and thinking how he would enjoy bathing in Elrond's rather wonderful bathing rooms on their return to Imladris and using the rich and aromatic oils. It had been a surprise and joy to Gimli when they arrived in Rivendell to learn that the Elves knew how to pump hot water from the mountains around them, and understood the importance of bathing, of oils, of scented soaps. Almost like home.

Gimli rummaged in his tunic to find the pocket where he kept his pipe and pipeweed and pulled it out, staring at the fire and its crackling flames. The slight breeze would take any smoke away from the camp. He filled his pipe and tamped it down, then reached into his pocket for his tinderbox.

A figure stepped out of the shadows beyond and stooped over the sleeping forms of his companions. Gimli narrowed his eyes; Elrohir. He knew it was Elrohir because it was Elladan whom Gimli had relieved from watching over Legolas, and he slept nearby so that Gimli could awaken him quickly if necessary. And Elrohir had a dark-bladed sword hidden in a black sheath with runes of mithril that swirled and swooped. Gimli wanted to look more closely at the sword, for its black blade was unusual and Gimli thought it must have been fashioned from the rare metal ores found in the distant northernmost and secret mines of Ered Luin. But even there such a deep metal was rare and precious. Gimli's hands itched to explore it, to feel the texture and hear its song. But he did not like Elrohir, did not trust him, so he watched him carefully.

The tall Elf walked slowly around the quiet camp, looking down at each one of them where they slept, though Gimli could not guess his purpose. Then he drew close to Gimli and glanced at him. Gimli met his eyes with his own challenging stare for he would not be cowed!

'Has he been quiet?' Elrohir asked in a low voice. It was smooth, his voice, and rich, dark, the sort of voice that made you listen, that could soothe you into sleep or rouse you to battle, but Gimli was not going to allow Elrohir to have any guardianship of Legolas.

'He is quiet now but a moment ago, he was very restless.' Gimli paused, wondering if he should tell Elrohir that Legolas had cried out, and Gimli thought he had sounded so distressed. But it could have just been him calling for his father, mother, lover...So he said nothing and held the flame to his pipe instead, drawing on the pipe so it lit, deep brown eyes fixed on Elrohir all the while.

Elrohir knelt beside Legolas and looked down at his face. He was not peaceful. Gimli could see his eyes were closed but beneath the lids, his eyes moved like he was watching something and his lips were parted; his breath came in short pants like he was terrified or running. Elrohir put his wrist over Legolas' forehead and held it there, his eyes downcast and the fire made shadows of his lashes on his cheek. Had it been anyone else, Gimli would have described the act as a blessing or benediction, but he could not think it would be that from Elrohir.

'I will give him more _sere-vanda_,' Elrohir said and did not seem to notice the sharp look Gimli gave him. 'It will keep him quiet.'

Gimli watched him disapprovingly, and drew on his pipe. The bitter taste of pipeweed on his tongue was overwhelmingly good and sharpened his senses. He let a long stream of smoke pour from his lips and then said slowly, thoughtfully, 'Is it quiet that we want? Will that help him recover or hinder him? I had thought your brother said the fever needs to worsen and then will break.'

The grey eyes that met Gimli's were intense and fierce but Gimli met them with an intensity of his own. A challenge.

'He need not suffer.' Elrohir's face was still, inscrutable as a carven image, but his voice crackled with suppressed irritation. '_Sere-vanda_ is a sedative. It will not dampen the fever. He will still dream but it will be deep and he will not remember it when he awakens.'

'I would rather you woke your brother first.' Gimli folded his arms across his chest and chewed on the end of his pipe a little. Immoveable, he told himself, like the Mountain itself.

Elrohir stood quickly and his eyes flashed. 'Then I will leave his care to you entirely since you do not trust me!' he snapped in annoyance.

Gimli merely inclined his head. 'That seems to be the way of it,' he said.

Elrohir stared at him for a moment and then flung himself away, Gimli would have said flounced, but that seemed too slight to describe the simmering tension that surrounded this Elf warrior.

Gimli settled himself back to watch, pleased that he had averted any attempt of Elrohir's to jeopardize Legolas' scarce recovery, but he wondered nonetheless if Elrohir had been right and if Gimli had caused him more pain. He sighed. He could only do his best and keep watch, a vigil, until morning and then Glorfindel and Amron could share the load.

Elrohir settled himself near Elladan but he did not lie down. He merely pulled his cloak about him and stared morosely into the fire. The scabbard of his sword lay to the side carefully, but he did not take it off and his hands often went to the hilt, Gimli noticed. The Elf stroked the polished handle as if he almost spoke to it. Well, that was not unheard of, Gimli thought, glancing at his own great war axe. But the fire that reflected in Elrohir's eyes showed he did not sleep though all others in the camp did so apart from Amron, who was on watch and whom Gimli could see but dimly, standing amongst the trees on the ridge above the camp.

It was very quiet, the river rushed on below them and a light breeze sometimes rustled in the dead leaves that clung still to the branches. But there was no other sound. Above him, Gimli could see the stars and they wheeled above him like diamonds on black velvet. It was cold, the frost coming down from the high Mountains lay on the air in drifts, lightly falling, slowly, over the trees and grass like silver glitter. The fire crackled and Gimli spoke a word and the flames burned low and hot, hidden by the pit he had dug for the purpose.

In the quiet of the night, Legolas cried out. It was a quiet, low cry that was full of pain and misery, and both Elrohir and Gimli's heads turned towards him. They waited.

After a moment, Legolas turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut and his hands lifted heavily, fluttering in the air about him for a moment and then dropped back to his side. He gave another low moan and his legs thrashed for a moment, and then he was still.

Gimli drew on his pipe, savoured the smoke without knowing it, watching. Then he let it stream from his lips, eyes on Legolas' pale face. Legolas fell quiet and still. He lay as if dead for a long moment and Gimli watched silently.

After a long while, there was another low moan, but this was not of pain but filled with anguish, like it sounded from the depths of his soul and was in torment. Gimli froze, pipe in hand and then leaned over and quietly placed his hand over Legolas' forehead. He moved his fingers over the pale and clammy skin, three fingers, then tapped twice and dotted the tip of his forefinger, repeating the blessing three times as required by the Iglishmêk* and Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose and his chest rose and then fell as he exhaled heavily and settled.

Gimli glanced up to see Elrohir watching intently, but he said nothing and when he saw Gimli watching him, he looked away.

Two hours passed and true to his word, Aragorn suddenly started and seemed to waken instantly. He sat up, pushed his hair back from his face and blinked roundly. Meeting Gimli's eyes, the Man smiled and yawned. 'I said I would relieve you,' he said and Gimli nodded for he knew he would need some sleep if they were able to march that day. He did not think Legolas would be able to walk, so they would have Legolas to carry and Rhawion's body too. He thought though that the body could be slung over one horse and Legolas carried on another perhaps. He was thinking this as he pulled his blanket about his shoulders and closed his eyes. Another thought was trying to make its way into his conscious mind, something he needed to do before he slept, but he could not remember what it was. And then sleep took him and it was too late to remember that he did not trust Elrohir with Legolas and wanted to warn Aragorn of that...

0o0o

He awoke suddenly. Loud voices, shocking out here in the quiet stillness of the Wild. Gimli's mind fumbled with what he had been dreaming and what he heard. Strange voices, words he did not understand, the fire leaping and crackling uncontrolled, blazing, and beyond it, dark shapes struggled. Something flashed.

He pushed his blanket to one side and scrambled to his feet, blinking and groping for his small throwing axe, checking his knives.

It was Legolas who was shouting.

The blankets that had wrapped him were thrown, hurled perhaps to the far side of the camp. He stood staring about him wildly, half naked with those strange markings on his torso and arms like Gimli's own _Gunud-aglâb*,_ and a knife glinted dangerously in his hand. He waved it in front of him as he shouted, threatening Aragorn who stood too close though the Man's hands were outstretched placatingly. To the side of Aragorn and half in darkness, was Elrohir, still and silent but watching intently; he knew it was Elrohir for the dark-bladed sword at his hip. Gimli could not follow what Aragorn was saying and then Legolas shouted over Aragorn, gesticulating murderously with his knife and he looked ready to leap at the Man's throat.

Suddenly it was dangerous and wild and Gimli felt that Legolas had no idea who they were or where he was. He caught Rhawion's name amongst the stream of incoherent words, and Phellanthir.

Gimli was aware of Elladan and Glorfindel, that both had leapt to their feet, swords already drawn when they too realised what was happening. In the firelight, the blades gleamed brightly, and the flames burned orange.

Legolas backed away from them, the knife flashing as he brandished it again at Aragorn, shouting. His skin was corpse-pale and Gimli could see sweat shining on his skin. His eyes were huge and he stared about him, wide-eyed, terrified. He did not know them. Legolas whirled towards him, confused and desperate, the firelight flickering over his skin, the _Gunud-aglâb* _like markings on his naked chest. Gimli thought it made him suddenly vulnerable for it was an intrusion and he thought someone should have covered him up and not left him half-naked like this for them all to gawp at. No Dwarf would ever show his secret markings except in the ritual of the _Mazar-kut_.*

Glorfindel slowly, quietly put down his sword now that he saw the only danger was from Legolas, and he spoke in a low soothing voice, taking one slow and careful step towards the Woodelf. He too mentioned Rhawion and Gimli frowned. Why were they all taking about Rhawion?

Glorfindel gestured into the shadows where they had put Rhawion's body so Gimli thought he was reassuring Legolas that Rhawion was here, that he was dead. Sure enough, Legolas edged towards the dark place where the body was covered still by Elrohir's cloak. He kept his knife pointing towards them as he moved and Gimli realised that he thought they were enemies. Perhaps he did not recognise any of them, that he had forgotten Rhawion was dead?

Without taking his eyes from them, Legolas moved to where the body was and glanced down. He flicked his gaze up again instantly, and with his free hand reached down to throw back the cloak to reveal the face of Rhawion. Legolas looked down again, and when he saw the cold stillness of Rhawion, he became transfixed. His face crumpled in anguished despair and he sank to his knees beside their dead comrade, crying out in his own tongue.

'_Díheno._ Ah Rhawion! _Díheno_,' he cried and he pressed his hands to his face. The knife was still clasped between his fingers and Glorfindel took a slow and careful step towards Legolas. Gimli dared not move for he had no idea what a distraught Woodelf could do, but he had seen their _berserker_ fury, as his father had called it, in the Battle of the Five Armies and he could not predict how Legolas might behave now in such distress.

A long stream of words poured from the distraught Elf, and Gimli wracked his brains for he could not remember what that meant though Bombour had tried to teach him. He could only pick out_ gwaedh _which he knew meant oath or promise. Legolas let his hands fall to his sides now and he lifted his lovely stricken face to the skies and cried aloud a stream of words, and suddenly he set the knife against his own chest and with an anguished cry, cut a deep incision into the skin. A thick ribbon of blood welled from the cut. Aragorn cried out a protest and lurched forwards.

At the same time there was a blur of movement from the shadows and Elrohir launched himself at Legolas. Legolas whirled round and struck out hard with foot and knife, slamming his foot into Elrohir's midriff and simultaneously slashing him across the cheek. But Elrohir caught his wrist and twisted so the knife flew from his fingers across the camp and skidded into the fire. Glorfindel and Aragorn launched themselves at Legolas and wrestled him to the ground. Between the three of them they pinned Legolas down.

Legolas bucked and kicked and thrashed about, shouting, screaming, weeping now. He kicked out and Elladan fell back clutching his eye, but he threw himself back on top of the wildly struggling Elf, and Glorfindel was shouting now too. Aragorn was thrown off and kicked hard in the midriff. He bent over, winded and clutching his belly and looking up watching. Elrohir pressed his whole weight down on the Woodelf's chest. Slowly the struggles became weaker and there was a moment of stillness before the heap of bodies suddenly lurched and struggled again as they tried to subdue the fever-stricken Woodelf beneath them.

Suddenly Legolas went limp and silent. His head rolled back and his hands relaxed.

For a moment, Glorfindel, Aragorn and Elrohir lay tense, Legolas quiet and still beneath them. Then they all seemed to talk at once, in quick urgent voices and Aragorn reached towards Elladan who was rummaging, one handed, through his pack. Hurrying over to them, Gimli saw that Elladan had in his hand a rolled up pouch that clinked quietly, so it must have some metal implements, Gimli surmised, and a small vial with an amber liquid sloshing in it.

Aragorn glanced at Gimli then and said, 'Gimli, please will you hold his feet so I can help Elladan.'

Gimli nodded and crouched down, put his strong hands firmly on Legolas' feet and felt him tense. 'He is going to fight again!' he warned and immediately they pressed down on him.

'Careful! He is still very weak,' Elladan said, squatting beside Legolas. 'Perhaps we should bind him. He will fight as soon as we let go.'

'I have him. He will not fight.' Elrohir had Legolas' right arm pinned beneath him and his weight against the Mirkwood Elf's shoulder. His hand was pressed over Legolas' forehead so he could not lift his head up. The Woodelf's eyes remained closed but his lips moved and he mumbled incoherently.

Aragorn pulled away from the tangle of bodies now that Gimli had Legolas' feet and knees, and the Man knelt behind Elladan and unrolled the velvet pouch to reveal a number of scalpels and other implements. He selected a fine needle and threaded it. 'We need to get that cut stitched while he's quiet.'

'He's not quiet yet,' Gimli warned, in spite of Elrohir's assurances, feeling the strong muscles tense. 'He is pretending.'

And on cue, Legolas suddenly gave an enormous buck and surged upwards, throwing off Gimli from his feet, and Glorfindel. He shouted loudly, furiously, and Gimli knew this was not Sindarin but the Black Speech, and for a moment he thought perhaps that Legolas had been possessed. Elrohir still hung onto his arm however and suddenly, with enormous strength, he shoved the Woodelf over so he lay on his stomach and threw himself onto Legolas' back, twisting Legolas' arm up behind him.

'Bind him then, curse him!' Elrohir shouted and Elladan grabbed the reins of his horse's bridle, the first thing to hand. Quickly he wound them about Legolas' wrists, pulled them back so his arms were tightly bound behind his back. Legolas writhed and struggled in pain, shouting, cursing whilst Elrohir forced his head back and Elladan shoved the vial between his clenched teeth and poured the liquid into his mouth. Legolas shook his head and would not swallow until Elrohir half lifted him and threw him hard back onto the ground. The shock made him gasp and splutter and some of the liquid he spat out but some he could not help but swallow.

It was then that Gimli heard him sob and saw the tears and desperation in Legolas' green eyes. Suddenly Gimli could not bear it and pushed between them all.

'Here, stop that. He is not an Orc. That will not do.' He snatched the vial from Elladan and knelt beside Legolas' head.

'No, he is not an Orc but the poison that is still within him will do as good a job as any Orc if we do not stop it!' Glorfindel suddenly snapped. 'And if he carries on with this noise, it will draw Orcs here, sure as daylight. And they will finish off what the poison did not!'

'I know this!' Gimli shot back. 'But this is not the way.' Gimli looked down with intense compassion at Legolas' terrified face. Then he lowered his voice so it was like the deep stone heart of the Mountain, like gravel in the river, like the rocks of the Forest streams. 'Legolas, it is me, Gimli Gloinsson.' The Elf looked up at him, and slowly his eyes focused on Gimli's face and seemed to clear a little. There were tears in his eyes, and he looked so unhappy and bewildered that it wrenched Gimli's heart strangely. Gently, he said, 'I am here because you need help, Legolas. Whatever it is you need to do, I will help you. Tell me.'

Legolas panted, heaving breath into his crushed lungs and Gimli glared at Glorfindel himself who looked embarrassed and shifted to ease the pressure off his chest.

'Tell me what you need. How I can help you, my poor friend?' Gimli gazed deep into the Elf's green eyes and hummed lightly under his breath. And Legolas took a breath that seemed to shiver through his whole body.

'It hurts,' he murmured and Gimli slowly put his hand out and patted the Elf's arm.

'I know. It will pass if you can take this medicine. Ell...Glorfindel is here. He is worried about you. Will you drink this?'

Legolas shook his head wildly. 'No. I cannot. It will make me sleep and I have to get back.'

Gimli frowned but kept his voice low and even and breathed rhythmically, slowing the Elf's fluttering, fevered breath. 'Where do you have to go?'

Legolas blinked and sweat drenched his face, dampened his pale hair. 'Phellanthir.'

Gimli heard a breath from Glorfindel and murmured concern but he ignored them all, focused on Legolas. 'No. You do not have to go there. It is empty now,' he said reassuringly. 'The Nazgul has been vanquished by Glorfindel and we are all safe.'

'No! No, we are not!' Legolas struggled to free himself. 'Rhawion is there. He is trapped! I _promised_ I would not leave him!' And then, as if suddenly becoming aware once more that he was bound, trapped, he cried aloud and renewed his struggles. 'Help me, Gimli. It is suffocating me! Swallowing me up!'

Gimli glared at Elrohir who simply glared back. 'Well, what do you want me to do?' snarled the son of Elrond. 'Get off him? Release him to cut himself more or to run back to the Tower? Surely he will run faster than any of us and elude us all?'

Gimli narrowed his eyes at Elrohir and then carefully, chastely, placed his hand on the Elf's bare shoulder. 'Can you trust me, my friend? If I can throw off this thing that is suffocating you, will you trust me? Do not run from me.'

Legolas' fevered green eyes searched his intently and then he moved his head as much as he could. 'Yes. I will trust you. You have some Dwarven magic that will help?'

'Yes. I will throw off this Nazgul that is suffocating you,' he said with a glare at Elrohir who stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and shifted his weight off Legolas, rolled onto his knees, but appeared ready at a moment to pounce back. Gimli quickly unwound the reins from round his wrists, noting the red marks where he had struggled against the thin leather. 'There. It is gone.' Gimli shifted closer to Legolas and took his hand in his. Legolas breathed deeply and let his head drop back in relief. 'Now, will you not tell me what is going on?' Gimli settled back on his heels. 'Here,' he said and leaned forward to help Legolas into a sitting position. 'Sit up. Is that better?'

Gimli tried not to look at the deep cut on his chest, inflicted in that moment of wild despair. Blood welled up from the cut, was smeared across his chest. But Legolas seemed oblivious to all else now and scuttled close to Gimli, eyes still intent upon his and grasped both Gimli's wide, square hands in his own long elegant ones. If Gimli thought Legolas weak before, which he did not, the grip on his hands would quickly dispel this, for the Dwarf had to gently prise Legolas' fingers from his and loosen his grip or even his strong hands would have been crushed.

'Rhawion is still in that place,' Legolas said earnestly. 'And I swore I would not leave him. I thought he was with me but he is not here.'

'Ah, Legolas.' Gimli shook his head sadly. 'He is dead. You have seen that.'

But Legolas clutched at Gimli's hands and stared at him, his eyes huge and feverish in that gaunt, pale face. 'No, not his body. They killed him, I know. But the Nazgul has his soul, Gimli. He is trapped in that place, consumed by the Dark, swallowed...' His voice became a low whisper. 'I swore not to leave him there, Gimli. I swore an Oath and I must go back.'

Gimli cast a worried look over his shoulder at Glorfindel to see the same look mirrored on the Elf-lord's face. 'Show him Rhawion again,' Glorfindel murmured, reluctant to disturb Legolas' trust of Gimli.

Gimli turned slowly back to Legolas. 'You have seen his body, Legolas. You brought him out of the Tower yourself.'

Legolas leaned closer to Gimli and grasped his arm in a grip that would have a Man wincing in pain. 'I brought his body out, yes, his hroa. But his feä. Gimli, his spirit. It is still there, in the Dark. The Nazgûl...' He leaned still closer so Gimli felt his breath on his cheek, and was captivated by the fear and terror in the long green eyes. 'The Nazgul has his _soul_.'

Gimli felt the indrawn breath of Glorfindel nearby and his own heart thudded wildly. 'I do not think you can be right in this, Legolas. Surely you Elves believe in a Doomsman who calls you hence to wherever you go?'

Legolas shifted even closer to Gimli and Gimli could only stare into the strange green eyes that were flecked with gold and seemed so otherworldly, alien. 'I do not believe in the Doomsman. In the Wood, we have only the Earth, the Wind, the Forest...' It sounded like the lines of a ritual to Gimli but Legolas' next words chilled him. 'There is nothing beyond the Veil in that place.' And Gimli knew he meant the haunted Phellanthir and cold crept down Gimli's spine at the words. 'Just the Eternal Dark.'

Gimli saw himself reflected in the pupils dark and wide with fear and he suddenly felt the world tilt, and thought a coil of darkness slid over his shoulder, round his neck. It seemed to writhe and slither over his jaw, to force itself between his teeth, wrap itself around his eyes so he was blind and suffocating. He felt his own breath leave his body like it was his last and thought his own limbs convulsed and thrashed, tearing at the coiled shadow that opened its jaw to swallow him...

He fell backwards and the spell was broken. He heard Glorfindel speaking urgently, fear in his voice but it felt like he was far, far away. There was blurred movement and he felt himself pushed gently back down to the earth and he did not try to get up. Instead he let strong, gentle hands move him and a face swam in his vision. The scent of something lovely suffused the air quite suddenly and he drifted... Rosemary, he thought, maybe bergamot too...and maybe honeysuckle. The sweetness of it made him remember home. Not Erebor. But _home._ The old forge in the Blue Mountains where he and Gloin had made utensils, toys, trinkets for the Men of the West Marches and the Elves of Mithlond. The smell of cooking, of the leather apron of his mother and...and...suddenly his eyes stung with tears.

When he blinked, he saw Aragorn's face looking at him with kind concern. He held a cup of some sort of infusion before Gimli and it was that he could smell. The Man was calling Gimli softly by name and for a moment, he thought Aragorn used his _name, _but he was not. It was the scent of the infusion, he thought, coupled with the terror of Legolas' visions that made him so weak and vulnerable.

'I am well enough now,' he said gruffly but he clasped the Man's hand nonetheless for he was grateful. 'Legolas? How is he?'

Aragorn looked briefly over his shoulder and Gimli became aware of a wailing beyond him that at first he thought was some wild animal being horribly killed. But it was Legolas he reailsed for he heard words in the dreadful cries and pathetic whimpers.

'You have to make him quiet!' Elrohir's voice was saying insistently and Gimli thought he agreed for the sound pierced the night and it would surely carry.

Elladan's own voice came back in a furious whisper. 'I know! What do you suggest?'

'Give him to me.'

There was a pause when all he could hear was a terrible pleading from Legolas and then he peered over Aragorn's shoulder to see that the fire was burning more brightly as if it fed off the fear. Orange firelight cast them all as demons of shadow and flame, and Gimli thought how the Sons of Elrond looked like dread lords of terror, for their faces were fair and grim and they locked their gaze with each other for a long moment and then they both leaned forward and Gimli could not see Legolas anymore. A long wail went up in the night, and suddenly stopped, as if it had been choked off.

'What have they done to him?' Gimli demanded and pushed himself to his feet, shoved past Aragorn.

Glorfindel stood nearby, looking down at Legolas and the Sons of Elrond held him between them. He was limp, head was fallen forward onto his chest, where a thin dressing now bound the self-inflicted wound, and his long, pale hair hung over his face. His hands were bound once more and somehow, that shamed Gimli more than anything.

'What have you done to him?' Gimli demanded, more insistently.

One of them looked up, his face hard and inscrutable. It was Elrohir, Gimli realised from the black sword at his hip. 'We have silenced him. He is still now.' He turned away and looked at his brother. It was strange to see them both, looking at each other with the same hard eyes.

Gimli stared, not knowing what to say. It was true that the noise Legolas was making was bringing danger to them all, but the piteous sight of his limp body laying between them was almost too much for the Dwarf to bear. 'Will he be all right now?' he asked, knowing it was weak.

'No.' Elladan said shortly. 'No, he will not be all right.' He threw an angry look at his brother.

Elrohir merely looked stonily at Gimli. 'The terror would kill him if the poison did not,' he said insistently. Elladan looked away and Elrohir continued, 'We need to subdue him, and then break the fever. We have sedated him heavily and now a drug must be given him that will intensify the fever so it breaks quickly. Aragorn will tend him when we have gone.'

'And where are you going?' Gimli demanded. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, made himself one with the rock, the stone, so they would know he would not be moved, would not be ignored in this, he would be heard and understood. Obeyed.

There was a pause, uncomfortable, and then Glorfindel stepped between Gimli and the sons of Elrond. 'They have to leave,' he said, nodding towards the two Elves. 'We cannot delay them any longer for their errand will take them now over the Misty Mountains. We will have to try to get Legolas back to Imladris without them.'

'You must delay!' Gimli protested. 'Surely your errand cannot be so serious that you would lose him for the sake of carrying it out? He will die without your aid.' He threw them a challenging, outraged look but neither looked at him, their grey eyes locked with the other's and they did not move or speak.

Glorfindel put his hand gently on Gimli's shoulder. 'It is more important, I fear, Gimli. More important than any of us.' And Gimli knew then that somehow their errand was connected with the One Ring. He looked away.

'We will delay our leave until first light.' Elladan spoke then and it seemed he spoke for both of them for the other nodded. 'We will do what we can to bring him peace, but we can delay no longer than that. I will tend Legolas until then and Aragorn will care for him after.'

And with that, Gimli had to be content.

00o0o0o

Elladan sat staring into the fire and occasionally threw a stick onto the low flames to feed them. It had been some hours since Legolas had awoken, screaming, overwhelmed by the ferocity of the poison, drawing his own knife upon himself, and now he lay sedated, heavily, with _sere-vanda_.

Too heavily, Elladan wondered. But he had been frightened that they might lose Legolas and in the end, he conceded uneasily to Elrohir's insistence that they subdue him. And then they had had no choice but to give Legolas heavier and heavier doses of _sere-vanda_ and Elrohir had forced upon Legolas the powerful _Cristôl,_ _Dream-Cleaver, _as it was called by the Rangers. This would intensify the fever enough for it to break whilst he was sedated by the _sere-vanda, _although it was more a hope than certainty. But as Elrohir kept pointing out, Aragorn was more than capable of nursing a feverish Woodelf. It did not need Elladan too to sit and wait so they would leave at first-light.

It was not yet dawn however, and Elladan had time yet to soothe and heal the frightened Woodelf, to let his calm blue peace spread through Legolas, easing his distress and torment, smoothing the nerves and knitting muscles and skin and cells...He conjured images of starlight, thinking that Legolas would be soothed by this the most and stroked them across the Woodelf's thoughts, of new leaves unfurling in the Spring, of sunlight spangling on water like blue silk. He let his thoughts drift, let his Power stroke gently across Legolas' wrangled body and troubled mind...

In the firelight Elrohir moved slightly. Elladan glanced towards him but Elrohir gave no answering look or movement, no sign of support or reassurance. Firelight reflected in his eyes and he continued to look stonily into the fire, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the hilt of the dark-bladed sword, his cloak cast to the side. Nearby, a low hump that was Gimli snored lightly and settled, and Amron lay with his hands crossed on his breast and eyes half-closed.

Elladan turned back to Legolas for a moment, noted the pale, clammy skin and the sweat on his brow but he was quieter, which was just as well for he dared not give Legolas more of either drug. Instead he sent another wave of images, of sunlight, new leaves, forest streams. And Legolas gave a sigh and seemed to settle more deeply into sleep.

Elladan's fingers drifted to the hilt of his dagger, smooth and well-worn by hands long, long years before he had been given it. He twirled it between his fingers, watching the firelight flash upon the blade, turn the runes liquid, watched how the words formed, fascinated.

Now that Legolas was calm, he turned his thoughts to his brother. He was angry with Elrohir's insistence on forcing drugs upon Legolas; Elladan had questioned whether they should intensify the fever, force it to break, for the terror had been so great in Legolas it was almost a cruelty. Had it been anyone but Elrohir, he would have refused. But Elrohir was a great healer and in battling fever and poison, he surpassed even Elrond; he would not yield, was unrelenting, determined to the point of self-destruction. So Elladan had deferred to him, as usual.

Had it been anyone but Legolas, he would not have questioned Elrohir. For it was Elrohir's reactions to Legolas that bothered him now.

Elladan let his eyes focus on the flames of the fire and half-aware, he twirled his dagger between his fingers, half-mesmerized, let his eyes go wide in the dark, thought about what had happened only hours before...

He thought how Legolas had resisted them all, convinced that they were Nazgûl or Orcs, Elladan knew not which. Elrohir had wrestled with him with a suppressed violence, thrown him down to make him swallow the _sere-vanda_. When Elrohir went to force the second dose however, he had been leaning over Legolas to force the _sere-vanda_ down his throat and the Woodelf was struggling and choking and fighting, Legolas had looked up and quite suddenly it changed; his long green eyes, bright with fever, had fastened upon Elrohir's. In that moment, something changed and he gazed almost in adoration, had swallowed the sedative trustingly, never taking his eyes from Elrohir's face.

And Elrohir too had changed; he had cradled Legolas' head almost tenderly to give him the _sere-vanda. _Gently he had let Legolas sip from the vial so the drug slowly, kindly took him down to sleep. It seemed at first that Legolas had touched some tender spot in his heart.

Elladan remembered how he had been surprised, pleased that perhaps this meant there could be peace between them. Elrohir's eyes as he looked down at the Woodelf, were soft, baffled.

But it was brief and short-lived; quite abruptly Elrohir had gone rigid - as if he had seen something that horrified him, some dreadful foresight perhaps, or memory unlocked by the pale gold hair damp with sweat and the trusting, fevered eyes fixed upon his...For he had suddenly cried out and thrust Legolas away, staggered to his feet with his hand clasped over his mouth as if he had seen some horror...

Elladan stared into the orange flames, let his own grey eyes go wide in half-reverie. And he wondered what had made Elrohir start so. Time spun on and he felt Elrohir's strange mood, his restlessness and something else. If it were anyone other than Elrohir, he would say it was fear. Or some secret guilt.

0o0o0

TBC.

Notes

Iglishmêk* - the gesture language of the Dwarves.

Gunud-aglâb -secret language, in this respect it is the secret tattoos of the Dwarvish clans. Gimli compares his own secret tattoos with Legolas' yarë-carmé (ancient art) which is cult-based and for identifying the bodies and body parts in Mirkwood.

Mazar-kut The Secret Fire. In this respect, a Dwarvish ritual of initiation, regeneration and renewal.

Díheno - Forgive me. Silvan dialect of Sindarin word

Thank you to those lovely people who review.


	16. Chapter 16

Thank you as always to those who review- it DOES make a difference and keeps me writing. aRedBaroness, Pandora (thank you) Guests (ah, there is so much more to Elrohir than there seems)and another guest (so glad you like Gimli – and I love the way you read this ) Freddie (and congrats on finishing your own wonderful story) iiionly (and I am so enjoying reading your work right now too) Whereverwinterfell (ummm…a little longer) kimberleykim (thank you) gginsc (No, I'll not give up on this but I have so little time these days. Sorry) Melethen (thank you for those gorgeous pictures of Legolas and the yare-carme. Posted on .de along with Mienpies pictures as well) Melusine-and thank you too for the checking, and Kombishiva (–keep following that path!)

As always thank you to my wonderful Anarithilien who is the world's greatest beta and to Spiced Wine and Melusine for their extra input.

Summary: Legolas has been wounded very slightly in Phellanthir when they were hunting the Nazgûl. Rhawion has been killed. Legolas' wound is poisoned and part of the pattern of the poison is to cause intense hallucination that can end with heart failure and fever etc leading to organ failure. Elladan and Elrohir have treated the wound but rather controversially. This is the same night.

**Chapter 16: Aragorn**

Still a few more hours before dawn, Elladan noted, throwing more sticks onto the low burning fire. His eye hurt where Legolas had punched him, he rubbed it gently, thinking that there might well be a bruise tomorrow. He felt a moment's relief that they had subdued Legolas so quickly and that he did not have his long white knives close to hand, or his bow. Elladan was not the only one with minor injuries; at the edge of the camp Glorfindel was dabbing a cloth to his split lip, and Aragorn was touching his side gingerly and flexing his arm as if checking for broken ribs.

Elladan sighed and squinted, wondering if he had a black eye or if it merely felt like one. He glanced across to where Elrohir still sat, drawing a whetting stone along Aícanaro's dark blade and Elladan had the strangest sensation that the sword seemed to uncoil and stretch languidly. He had felt such things before but the sword's sentience still made the hair on his scalp prickle. Elrohir alone seemed to have escaped injury, but now and again his steel-grey eyes flicked up and fastened upon the fevered Woodelf. The flames reflected eerily in Elrohir's eyes and Elladan could not read the strange expression on his face. There had been that moment of tenderness between Legolas and Elrohir but how quickly that had turned into something other, something that horrified Elrohir and he had pushed away from Legolas as if afraid.

There was movement beside him and broke into his musings. Looking up, he saw that Aragorn had come to join him. He watched the Man settle and wince slightly, wrapping his cloak around himself for the night air was cold and the sky clear. Rummaging for a moment, Aragorn pulled his long thin pipe from somewhere between the folds of his cloak and tunic and drew out his pipeweed pouch.

Elladan lifted an eyebrow disapprovingly. 'Adar would not like to see you with that,' he cautioned. And then with a slight smile, 'Nor Arwen.' For he and Elrohir had long known the secrets of the Man they owned even now as brother

'She likes the smell of it,' Aragorn grinned irrepressibly and Elladan was glad for too often of late had Aragorn looked pensive and drawn when Arwen was mentioned. Now the Man struck his tinderbox. A flame flared and then died back, leaving a smaller flame which he brought to the bowl of the pipe and pressed his lips together to make that funny _put-put_ noise, drawing in air to light the pipe, and that Elladan had grown to associate entirely with Aragorn. Aragorn settled himself comfortably, leaning on one elbow and stretched out his long legs and the bitter-fragrant smoke teased Elladan's nose.

Gimli snored suddenly and rolled over to his side, cradling his head more comfortably on his strong arm. In the firelight his glossy chestnut hair caught the light strangely, like fireflies had alit in his hair. He wore his chain mail beneath his tunic and cloak even as he slept and Elladan wondered at the hardiness and strength in that sturdy form.

Prodding the low fire, he stared for a moment into the flames. Gimli had kindled the fire and Elladan wondered if that was why it burned hotter though its flames were low and seemed to burn less brightly, as if they sensed somehow the need for secrecy and warmth.

'You still intend to leave at dawn then?' Aragorn asked, though he knew Elladan and Elrohir had already delayed longer than they had intended. Their errand was too important, and already they were later than their father and Mithrandir would want. Galadriel had to be warned and her wisdom sought before the year waned.

'Winter is deep upon Caradhras,' Elrohir said pointedly from the fireside.

Elladan agreed; any later and Winter might stop them from crossing by the Redhorn Gate, and they dared not go through the Gap of Rohan. Not with Gandalf's news of Saruman's betrayal. And they would not risk Moria, nor even speak of it. Elladan stared into the flames, remembering. Only once had the brothers passed through the Pit, Aragorn with them and the memory of it weighed upon them all. He glanced across at Aragorn who shivered slightly as if his thoughts followed the same path and pulled his cloak more closely about himself.

'You know our errand,' Elladan said to him. 'So you know too that we have already delayed too long. You will have charge of Legolas then.' He looked up questioningly. 'Will you be all right?'

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow and looked faintly exasperated.

Elladan gave a short laugh and held up his hands. 'Very well. Yes, I know. But it still feels like you are my little brother. It is hard to see you like this.' He took in the tall lean frame, the beginning of grey in the Man's hair and a pang of loss hit him and he almost gasped with it. It was too little time, too short the span of a Man's life.

Elladan felt Elrohir's impatient watchfulness shift to concern but neither spoke. They had lived with it for too long, seen too many Men fall. They had both loved Arathorn.

Unaware, Aragorn merely smiled in slight exasperation. 'Little brother?' he asked wryly and then drew on his pipe and then a moment later, reached for his pack and shoved it behind himself, shifted it about one handed until it was comfortable. Then he leaned back again, resting against it.

'How is Legolas?' he asked, with a nod towards the unconscious Elf and Elladan was pulled back into the present.

'If the _Cristôl_ has taken hold, it will begin fighting the poison and then he will begin vomiting, trying to purge himself of it,' he said with a sigh. Then he remembered the Dwarf's strange protectiveness and simple ingenuity and it heartened him. 'Gimli braided Legolas' hair to keep it out of the way,' he said with a smile. 'And he scraped a shallow pit here. Look how he left the soil loose so we can quickly cover anything he brings up.'

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. 'I wonder if this will be a friendship such as Narvi and Celebrimbor.'

Elladan smiled. 'I cannot imagine Legolas in a forge or making anything more difficult than an arrow,' he said lightly. 'But a friendship between these two might bind their two peoples in the dreadful times ahead. For War is coming, no doubt.'

'An alliance between Elves and Dwarves in the North?' mused Aragorn. 'Well worth the experiment.'

'Who would have thought the old conjurer could be so right,' Elladan said drily.

Aragorn gave him an answering smile. Silently he smoked his pipe and Elladan followed his gaze to where Legolas lay in a feverish, sweaty daze. No doubt locked by the drug, _Cristôl into_ a dream of Phellanthir and the Nazgûl, convinced that he had abandoned Rhawion to a terrible doom where he was forever trapped in the Dark, Nazgûl's prey...

Elladan shuddered and looked with compassion upon Legolas. Blood spotted the white linen strips they had used to dress the self-inflicted wound on Legolas' chest. Aragorn had been the one to stitch the cut for he had a neat hand. Elladan noted too that the edges of the dressing were already wet with sweat, and the Woodelf's hair was damp; the one thick braid that Gimli had tied it into was pulled to the side but tendrils had escaped and were plastered across his face. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes moved rapidly as if he were watching something distressing in his heavy, drugged sleep.

Aragorn shifted slightly and took his pipe from between his lips and looked at it. Then he said, as though casually, 'I know _Cristôl _isthe antidote to _Lhach-Rhaw ... _But you are sure that this is the right course for him?'

Elladan glanced up and found the Man's eyes upon him, concerned, questioning, uncertain.

'I know that Elrond created it, but he counsels _careful _use of it,' Aragorn went on and his eyes glanced briefly at Elrohir and then back to Elladan. 'He says that you should give only a small amount, and sometimes we should not use it at all but let the poisons purge naturally.'

And Elrohir had often argued with Elrond that they should use it more frequently despite the after-effect, Elladan thought. It was yet another way for father and son to fight. But Elrohir was by far the best healer for poisons and venoms; he fought them like he fought Orcs. But even Elladan thought Elrohir had been brutal with Legolas, had forced it into him with more violence than healing.

'Would you prefer the poison ran rampant through his body, destroying his organs, poisoning his blood? ' A voice cut through the quiet. Elrohir. 'It will kill him.' He had ceased whetting Aícanaro and was looking towards them. 'This is the only way.'

Aragorn looked away but he fiddled with the ring on his finger and turned and turned it and Elladan knew he was distressed for it put him once again in the position of choosing between the man whom he saw as his father and the man he saw as his brother. Elladan's heart swelled with a tender pang for them all, and wished, not for the first time or the last, that somehow his brother and father could see how much they hurt not only each other, but those around them whom they both loved.

'You will not give him a second dose though?' Aragorn asked hesitantly, and Elladan saw what it cost him to challenge Elrohir.

'Why not?' Elrohir went back to Aícanaro, sliding a silk cloth along it now and did not see the look on Aragorn's face, the hurt at being so easily disregarded.

'You know the risks,' Aragorn persisted. Elrohir did not pause but continued to stroke Aícanaro with silk, like it soothed him. 'Do you not think we should give him a chance to throw it off now? Increasing the dose will plunge him further into those...nightmares...Could it not cause greater risk?'

'Increasing the dose of the anti-venom will hasten the climax.' Elrohir did look up now. 'Do you think it better to extend the fever, allow the poison more leverage in his body?' He was the healer now, the teacher. 'You know its effects, Aragorn. It will flood his bloodstream and attack every organ, every part of him. What he experiences now is an illusion. The _sere-vanda_ makes it a dream, nothing more. If you leave the poison with nothing to fight it, it _will _kill him'

Aragorn paused, then took a breath and continued, 'And what of the after-effect? What of the damage it might do to his nerves, his sight?'

'That is unlikely,' Elrohir said. 'He said himself he has thrown off venoms before with no ill effect. He is Woodelf anyway. He will be used to drug-induced dreams.'

Elladan looked up in distress, feeling the swirl of anger beginning in his brother's breast, the choking guilt and failure. He began to protest, to stop them from going further.

'It is a harsh dream to have out here in the Wild.' Aragorn's eyes locked with Elrohir's.

'More dangerous, less wise, as Mithrandir himself says,' Elrohir said coldly and looked back down to Aícanaro resting on his lap. 'One more or less will make little difference. They cannot even protect their own.' It was so dismissive and contemptuous that Aragorn gasped and Elladan cringed.

'Elrohir, when did you become so quick to judge another's failure?' It was gently given but a reproof nonetheless, and from Glorfindel who stood at the edge of the camp. He had overheard all.

Elrohir turned slowly, his eyes hardened and filled with barely suppressed fury. 'The day Elven warriors allowed my mother to be captured, the day Orcs tortured her and all the joy went out of our lives,' he said and rose to his feet. Aícanaro was clenched in his fist, and seemed to uncoil, to lick the air, tasting it, the tension and fury. Elrohir stood glaring at Glorfindel but the Elf lord did not back down. So finally it had been said. Had he always blamed Glorfindel, thought Elladan, surprised.

'You are not alone in your loss. And there have been other losses,' he reminded Elrohir gently.

'Do you mean _Gondolin_?' Elrohir sneered. Elladan reached out and put his hand upon his brother's shoulder but he merely shook him off. 'Elves who cowered in their city of stone while others gave their lives to stand against Morgoth.'

Elladan had never seen Glorfindel truly angry apart from in battle but suddenly he seemed incandescent, like a flaming torch, his hair seemed alight and his blue eyes like cold fire. Lightning could not be more charged than the look he gave Elrohir. Even Elrohir took a step back. 'Erestor has been filling your heads with Feänorian propaganda,' Glorfindel said tightly, with bitter anger. 'Get yourself up there on watch and out of my sight so I can forgive you your stupidity.'

Elrohir gave a short laugh and sheathed Aícanaro. 'You fight with me over this Woodelf! I hope you enjoy him then. Everyone else has.'

Elladan shook his head and stepped away from his twin. When he was in this temper there was no reasoning with him, no sense, only fury. Elrohir stalked out of the clearing up to the ridge. Glorfindel stared after him, his arms by his sides and fists clenched as if he had to control himself, though he said nothing.

Elladan could see Glorfindel had been deeply shocked by what Elrohir had said and troubled. Indeed, he had himself and though he felt he should defend Erestor in this, he said nothing; it was not the time and then Glorfindel threw his cloak about himself and strode away down towards the river.

Elladan sighed and glanced at Aragorn. The Man was sitting by the fire, an orange glow reflecting on his skin and his eyes thoughtful and concerned. They exchanged a look. Elladan looked up at the ridge where Elrohir had gone.

'Go after him if you think it will do any good,' Aragorn said, but both knew it was useless so Elladan dropped to the ground beside Aragorn. Aragorn pulled out his pipe, looked at it irritably as though it had gone out on purpose and then lit it once again.

Elladan breathed through his nose and shifted. He glanced at Legolas' still, pale face shining with sweat but corpse-pale and cold. Elladan found his fingers stroking the hilt of his knife, the metal smoothed by hands before it was his, long, long ago. It comforted him strangely though perhaps it should not. It reminded him too of the complexity of his relationship with his brother, the absolute love, loyalty, and the absolute bewilderment sometimes that he felt at Elrohir's actions.

'He went too far this time, Elladan,' Aragorn said after a while. 'I have not seen him like this before. He seems so furious. I thought it might have been the effect of the Ring at first but he has been even worse since we left Imladris,' he observed and Elladan thought that was true. Elrohir had not been ready to come home, had not slaked his hurt and guilt and hunger sufficiently and they would not have returned at all had they not heard that the Nazgûl had attacked Imladris. And then it had seemed to get so much worse once they began this journey. Legolas had made it so much worse with killing the Orc, thought Elladan, but Elrohir had already expressed unreasonable hatred of the Mirkwood Elf even before that, he mused and frowned.

It seemed Aragorn's thoughts were similar. 'You saw the way he forced Legolas to drink the _Cristôl_,' he said baffled. 'He did not control the amount. You saw how brutal he was. It could seriously affect him.'

Elladan agreed but he said nothing. It was Aragorn's distress that made him speak, for he never, ever criticized his brothers and Elladan would never speak ill of Elrohir, not even to Aragorn.

'What if it was too much? If he awakens, he might think he has to return to Phellanthir,' Aragorn said, anxiety edging his voice. 'Is it not true that he could awaken and be trapped in his illusion? He could think it real?'

Elladan could see that Aragorn was considering, remembering the night and Legolas' terrible hallucination. He felt his own skin crawl at the memory; in Legolas' mind the Nazgûl had transformed into some great serpent that had wrapped its coils around Legolas, and opened its horrible jaws to swallow him into the Dark, the Void that all Elves feared. Was that what had happened in Phellanthir, Elladan wondered, and knew it had. Was it worse that Legolas was convinced that Rhawion's feä was somehow trapped in Phellanthir, somehow a prisoner of the Nazgûl? He shuddered and felt the hairs on his scalp stand stiffly, on one side of his body, like something had brushed against him in the darkness.

Aragorn too, looked around him suddenly as if he too felt it. He saw how Aragorn's eyes sought his sword, leaning against a nearby tree and found his knife in his own hand and clutched it tightly. The hilt warmed his palm, and the warmth spread up his arm like a reassurance. It did not burn blue and he felt the hairs on his body slowly flatten and smooth. He suddenly met Aragorn's grey eyes and both gave a rueful smile. Elladan took his hand from the hilt of his knife and shook his head at himself, but the power of those images stayed with him.

At that moment, Legolas turned his head and cried out something too confused for Elladan to understand and he leaned forwards again and placed his hand gently on Legolas' forehead, then felt for his pulse. The vein in his neck throbbed alarmingly, his heart was racing and skin was clammy, drenched in sweat. This was the _Cristôl_ taking effect, forcing the fever, fighting the ensorcelled poison with its own properties enhanced by Vilya.

Legolas lurched suddenly sideways and retched.

Elladan scrambled to Legolas' side and held him as he convulsed, moved him gently so he retched into the hole in the earth that Gimli had dug out for him. Black bile forced its way out of his mouth, trickled down his chin. Aragorn crouched beside him, pulled back the long thick plait of Legolas' hair and wiped the Elf's mouth with a cloth.

'Hold him while I give him more _sere-vanda_,' Elladan said, glancing at Aragorn. Neither spoke of _Cristôl_ again and Elladan hoped that by drugging him into oblivion at least, as Elrohir had said, the terrible hallucinations would be no more than a dream.

Elladan realised his hurt eye throbbed a little and he rubbed it. He blinked and then looked down to pour a measure of sere-vanda into a flask. He cupped the back of Legolas' head and raised him up a little and held the flask to Legolas' lips.

Legolas' eyes were a mere seam of dark green beneath a fringe of lashes, the lovely face closed in pain ... for it was a lovely face. Elladan tipped the flask up so the amber liquid trickled into Legolas' mouth. A generous mouth, thought Elladan realising he had thought so before, ready to laugh and love. There was a fine chain around his neck and a small oak leaf, gold, mithril, and Elladan thought perhaps it was a gift, from a lover. It had the look of a love-keepsake, he thought. Perhaps then, Legolas had a lover back in Mirkwood.

Legolas lurched forwards again and retched violently. There was a vomit of black liquid that shot from his mouth and he cried out, eyes scrunched up. Elladan saw how Aragorn held Legolas steady and when he had finished, wiped his mouth gently with a cloth. Then he moved Legolas' head back to rest against his own shoulder. For a moment Aragorn rested his free hand lightly on the Elf's shoulder. Beneath his hand the painted swirls seemed to eddy and undulate. Elladan knew it was a trick of the light, but Aragorn suddenly pulled back his hand as if he had been bitten.

He gasped and shook his head at himself, then looked down again at the strange patterns etched onto the Mirkwood Elf's skin. 'I thought for a moment...' he began.

Elladan smiled and nodded. 'Yes, it looks like there's something watching you. I thought so too at first.' He and Aragorn carefully lowered Legolas to the blankets again and pulled the blanket up over his chest. With the compassionate quiet of the healer, he let his blue peace and calm spread from his hands, his fingers, and wrap itself gently around Legolas, let it suffuse the air around him. He remained for a moment, quiet and still until Legolas too grew quieter, more peaceful

At last he settled back and threw another stick on the fire, watched it catch light and burn slowly orange.

'I have faith in you, Aragorn,' he said gently. 'You are one of the most gifted Healers I have ever known. More even than your father.'

He saw how Aragorn's face subtly shifted, and then the Man dropped his head and Elladan saw how his fingers twisted the Ring of Barahir as he always did when his father was mentioned. And then he looked up, meeting Elladan's eyes, full of hope, of vulnerability, wanting to hear more of his father.

'He would have been proud of you,' Elladan said quietly, wishing Arathorn could have lived to see the Man his son had become.

Elladan felt his own pang of loss and sorrow, for he had loved Arathorn too, had loved them all- the Heirs of Isildur, each one hoping to be the One who would restore his House. Now here was one who outshone them all. And like his forefathers, one day he too would be mere ashes and dust.

Elladan blinked hard and glanced up at the sky. How quickly the stars seemed to move across the night, like the tides of time in a mortal life. He blinked and through the blur he caught slight movement at the edges of the firelight. Elrohir shifted slightly as if he sensed Elladan's distress. And of course he did.

Instead he clasped Aragorn's arm, wanting to feel anchored himself, to feel warm and living flesh and blood.

Elladan smiled wryly and nodded and when Aragorn had turned his back and rolled himself tightly in his cloak upon the ground, Elladan closed his eyes tightly for a moment for the hurt and loss that he knew was ahead of him, sometime.

0o0o0

It seemed but a moment ago that he had left Elladan's side when Aragorn awoke to a hand pressed lightly on his shoulder. Elrohir stood above him, dressed and ready for the journey that would take him and Elladan to Lothlorien. Aragorn pushed himself to sit up, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

It was very early, the thin morning light cold and the horses still half asleep. Roheryn was resting one hoof and his head was low, eyes half shut. Around Aragorn his companions slept, huddled grey shapes on the cold ground. He could hear Gimli's snores. Glorfindel and Elladan stood at the edge of the camp, talking in low voices.

'We take our leave of you now, Estel,' Elrohir said softly.

Aragorn's belly felt chilled with the cold morning, but he struggled awake and remembering their argument, clasped Elrohir's hand. 'You are leaving already?' he said.

Elrohir paused, looking down for a moment. His face softened.

'Ai, Estel,' he relented finally and sighed. His hand clasped Aragorn's and he gave a half-smile that seemed so rare these days that Aragorn felt his chest swell with love for his brother, and knew he was forgiven. As Elrohir had been the first to forgive him Arwen. Suddenly he wished he had his brothers' company for longer; the Quest ran ahead of him, and beyond that...he could not see. He wished that he might have their company on the Quest, that Elrond would agree to send them too...

Elrohir had walked over to his black horse, Barakhir, who bent his head and nosed his rider trustingly, chewed the silver bit in his mouth. Elrohir threw his saddle over the horse's back and reached below to the girth, and fastened the buckles, pulled down the stirrups. Glorfindel turned his head to look but Elrohir did not return his gaze. He glanced away towards the feverish Mirkwood Elf, and then to the still and silent body that had been Rhawion.

Aragorn grunted and pushed himself to his feet, feeling his joints crack slightly and click from a night on the hard ground. He stepped carefully around Gimli's sleeping form towards Elladan. Amron stirred slightly as he passed.

'I bid you good morning only to bid you farewell I see,' Aragorn said softly to Elladan, who must have noticed the note of disappointment, forlornness too for he smiled kindly and Aragorn was struck anew how like Arwen was to her brothers, for in all their lineaments one could see Luthien's heritage.

'We will return to Imladris in a couple of weeks, all being well,' Elladan said. 'Have we not always spent Yule together?' He laughed softly so he would not awaken their companions.

'I hope there will be more than a skinny rabbit and half empty flask of miruvor,' Aragorn replied, thrown back to a memory of the bleakest Yule he had ever spent, with Elrohir and Elladan camped out upon a cold mountain-side in the Hithaeglir huddled beneath an overhang with a meager fire, enough only to cook the rabbit though Aragorn was famished enough to have eaten it raw.

They shared a rueful smile and Elladan ruffled his hair irritatingly. Elrohir glanced up to watch them over the back of his black horse while he fastened his saddlebags and strapped Aícanaro to the saddle sheath. He did not smile.

Elrohir ducked under Barakhir's neck and slid his hand along the glossy black neck, gathering the reins. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung easily astride. Only then did he look down briefly at Aragorn. For a moment the steel-grey gaze softened into something else, something that was haunted, lost. Suddenly concerned, Aragorn reached out but at that moment, Barakhir shook his head and side-stepped impatiently and Aragorn let his hand fall back to his side. Then Elrohir was busy checking stirrups and girth and that Aícanaro was sheathed safely at his hip, and did not see Aragorn's gesture of concern.

'May Elbereth go with you both.' Glorfindel turned towards Elrohir and included him in his blessing. But Elrohir glared down at the Elf-lord, fury banked and barely held in check. Barakhir snorted and stamped impatiently and Glorfindel lay his hand upon the horse's neck and stilled him. 'Your anger is not with Legolas but yourself,' he said so softly that Aragorn could barely hear for it was meant only for Elrohir. 'And if you must blame someone, let it be me that I have let you descend into this.' Glorfindel's blue eyes were intense and clear when he looked up into Elrohir's cold steel eyes. Neither flinched nor looked away. 'Even so, do not let your anger blind you to danger, Elrohir. For I forgive you and love you whatever you do, wherever your bruised heart has taken you.'

Elrohir did not look away and his mouth was a hard, thin line. And he did not answer or beg Glorfindel's forgiveness either and Glorfindel sighed and stepped back then. He stood watching as Elrohir gathered up the reins and pulled Barakhir's head round and slowly headed towards the steep little rise that led out of the hollow.

Aragorn felt the tension simmering in the air but he had learned to keep his own counsel and wait until Elrohir's dark rage had burned away. Instead he held Baragur's stirrup and Elladan smiled at him over the top of the saddle and swung easily up. 'Be careful out here in the Wild, little brother,' he said, looking down at Aragorn and suddenly serious. 'I know,' he laughed. 'You are a Ranger and face the Wild every day, but let me say this. Be safe.' He leaned down and clasped Aragorn's shoulder.

'Come Elladan. We can delay no longer with this,' Elrohir interrupted, his voice tetchy and impatient.

Elladan looked over his shoulder at his brother and his face was concerned and tender. Then he leaned down towards Aragorn again. 'You know we would not leave Legolas if he were in real danger.' He glanced over towards the Woodelf and concern crossed his face. 'He is still feverish though. It has not broken even now, the poison will make him see things in the air. But he is very strong...Use the sere-vanda to keep him calm. Just little sips now so he gradually comes back to wakefulness. You will be back in Imladris within days, but do not tarry.' He smiled ruefully. 'I have faith in you, Aragorn. You are as good a healer as any in Imladris, save Ada.' Then he paused and leaned down to press something into Aragorn's hand. 'Take it just in case.' Aragorn looked down. It was a small flask. 'In here is the rest of the Cristôl.' Elladan held Aragorn's gaze carefully.

Aragorn's eyes widened slightly and he began to shake his head and give it back.

Elladan clasped his hand and closed his fingers over the small flask. 'I know. But listen. You may have no choice. Only if you are in urgent need or if his pain becomes unbearable. It will speed up the fever and help him to throw off the poison more quickly that way.'

Reluctantly, Aragorn took the flask and tucked it away in his tunic, telling himself he would not use it. Elladan nodded and smiled reassuringly. He looked down at Aragorn for a moment and when Elrohir called to him again, impatient and irritated, Elladan wheeled his black horse around and with a clatter of hooves against the stony trail, he cantered after his brother. The two black horses surged up the narrow trail that led up to the ridge above the camp and disappeared between the tall, thin trees.

Aragorn watched until they broke upon the ridge above and turned to look down into the valley. They raised their hands to him, the thin morning light catching upon the steel bits and stirrups, and then wheeled their black steeds and were gone. The thunder of hooves echoed for a moment and then that too faded.

Aragorn turned back to the camp and to his shame, felt a small sense of relief that Elrohir at least had gone. Glorfindel was striding up the steep slope along the narrow path to the ridge. His bow was slung over his shoulder and Aragorn knew he would be relieving Amron from his watch. He pushed aside the confused feelings and knelt beside Legolas. His skin was flushed still and sweat dampened the loose strands of hair around his face. His eyes were closed, but Aragorn could see them moving beneath his lids as if he dreamed wildly.

A robin sang in the woods over the river and was answered by another and the pale morning sunlight crept over the Mountains.

Slowly Amron walked down from the ridge, bow slung over his shoulder and his head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. He nodded at Aragorn and looked anxiously at Legolas' pale face. 'How is Legolas?'

'I do not know,' Aragorn said honestly. 'The fever still rages and Elladan says it will get worse before it breaks.'

Amron looked down at Aragorn doubtfully. 'What is it that is so important that they leave when Legolas is still so fevered?'

Aragorn squashed the irritation that Amron did not feel he was good enough a healer for Legolas and said mildly, 'They have an errand for my Lord Elrond.' He let the formality speak for him, and Amron lifted his gaze briefly but knew better than to ask. 'Already they have lingered too long. Winter has already set in over Caradhras.'

Amron merely grunted and turned away but Aragorn said softly, knowing he would hear, 'I will not fail him, Amron. I have seen this before. He will survive.'

Amron dropped his head and closed his eyes in apology. 'I know,' he said. 'But I have seen the agony and suffering too and it can break the strongest. You are an exceptional healer, Aragorn. I know this. But the Brethren fight it from here,' He pressed his hand over his heart. 'They fight for the soul, and it makes you strong, not weak. And I have become fond of our friend.'

Aragorn did not miss the slight glance towards Rhawion's still body and cursed himself inwardly. Of course Amron was going to feel concern; he had already lost one of his comrades and now looked to lose another. He knew they had drawn together, the Elvish warriors, for Glorfindel was apart from them and Gimli, no matter how doughty, still a Dwarf and he and the Brethren had been in the Angle for the most part.

'Amron...' he began but Amron shook his head and looked away.

0o0o0

The day passed slowly for them all. Aragorn kept watch over Legolas whilst Glorfindel stood guard upon the ridge, Amron cooked, and Gimli tended the fire. There was a peaceful domesticity and but for Legolas' cries and murmurs of distress, all would have seemed to be a mere hunting trip.

They swapped occasionally and Gimli took over from Aragorn to give him some rest, but he found his eyes always straying back to where Legolas lay. Now and again he twitched or tossed his head in distress. He had retched and brought up black bile frequently but Elladan had told him more than once that this is what they needed. Twice more Aragorn dosed him with sips of sere-vanda. He did not touch the flask of Cristôl and left it tucked away in his saddlebag.

The long shadows of the late afternoon drew over the small camp and they had all settled into their routines.

A birdcall sounded from above and instantly every head turned to stare upwards towards the ridge. Amron rose slowly to his feet and it came again.

Aragorn glanced at Amron and instantly they were kicking over the fire, raking the hot ashes so all trace disappeared, stopping the scatter the stones that surrounded the fire pit. Gimli was already on his feet when Glorfindel hurried down from the ridge above.

'A large band of Orcs is on the move,' he hissed and they quickly gathered round him. 'A small band is scouting and edging closer to us but a larger band is behind them. We need to go.' He looked at Aragorn first. 'We have some hours ahead of them and must take advantage of that. Aragorn, take Legolas on Roheryn. Head for Luin-Aglar.' Aragorn nodded once and Glorfindel turned to Amron. 'Take the narrow trail up top. Lay a false trail that will lead them west, away from here.' Amron turned to go but Glorfindel caught his arm and held his gaze. 'Do not take any risks. Do not get caught.'

Amron nodded, shouldering his bow and then he glanced across at Rhawion's body, covered now by Elrohir's blanket for he had taken his cloak.

'We will have to leave him.' Glorfindel reached out and grasped Amron's shoulder. 'I will hide him well and return for him.'

It was painful to see the anguish in Amron's eyes.

'I will see to Rhawion.' A deep voice like the river over gravel came from behind Aragorn and he did not turn. It was Gimli. 'I will find him a place to rest and be safe. They will not have him.'

Sorrow flickered over Amron's fair face for a moment and then he bowed slightly. It seemed that grief struck him too deeply then for he did not speak but briefly clasped Gimli's arm and then turned and ran lightly up the path to the top of the ridge. They saw his figure weave between the trees and bushes and then he was gone.

Aragorn turned and grasped Roheryn's saddle, lugged it over to where the horse stood, his strong head turned inquiringly towards Aragorn. He threw the saddle over Roheryn's wide back and reached below his belly for the girth, buckling it. The horse grunted as he pulled it tight.

'If we are not there at Luin-Aglar within two days,' said Glorfindel, 'leave a sign that you have been there. Then head for Imladris and warn Elrond what comes his way. We will do the same if you do not arrive.'

'Will you come over the hills?' Aragorn asked. 'Or along the river?' He held the bridle out and Roheryn dipped his head and took the bit in his mouth gently as he always did and Aragorn felt a rush of affection for the patient, kindly horse that never failed him, never let him fall, never took a false step.

'We will travel along the river, we can hide our tracks that way.' Glorfindel stooped and scattered the stones that made the fire-pit.

'Elladan?' he asked suddenly, realising his brothers were riding straight at the Orc band.

Glorfindel shook his head. 'They have already crossed the river. Elrohir will have known somehow Orcs were ahead. You know how he does. And Elladan has that dagger,' he said with a slight curl of distaste for he knew to whom it had belonged once. 'They head for the Gap of Rohan, not high Caradhras.' He cast a baleful look at the high mountain already thick with snow and raising its cruel head to look coldly over Eregion.

Quickly, Aragorn tied his pack onto the cantle of the saddle now and pulled the stirrups down. He glanced behind him towards Legolas to see that Glorfindel bent over the feverish Elf now and clasped his uninjured shoulder lightly.

There was a moment when Aragorn thought the clearing was flooded with a golden light, sweeter than sunlight, older, more pure. And then Glorfindel spoke, 'Legolas. Awake now.' His voice had great power, thrummed through the blood and Aragorn felt himself turn and his heart slowly flipped in his breast as if Arwen stood there. Legolas stirred and his eyes flickered open, a thin seam of deep green and then he turned away, groaning.

'Legolas.' Glorfindel's voice became deeper, more resonant and Aragorn felt a song thrum through him like harp strings, it called to his very being. Legolas turned back towards Glorfindel, lips parted and slowly opened his eyes as though he had been asleep for a long, long time and was now coming back to awareness. He fastened his gaze upon Glorfindel as though there was nothing else in the world but the Elf lord.

Glorfindel smiled. 'Well done, child,' he said. His hand was still on Legolas' shoulder and now he leaned closer and slid his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder to draw him forwards. 'We have to move. There are Orcs on our trail. Can you ride?'

'If you bid it, my lord.' His voice was so weak that Aragorn had to bend forwards to hear.

'Aragorn will take you on his horse, on to Luin Aglar, where we rested before.'

Legolas frowned and lifted his hand weakly to his mouth, touched his lips, ran his fingers over his nose and eyes as if unsure he was himself. He licked dry lips and Aragorn reached for his water skin, unstoppered it and held it gently to the Elf's lips. He jerked his head away at first.

'It is only water,' said Aragorn and then he looked up at Aragorn. His eyes were cloudy, but he knew Aragorn, there was recognition, and he drank.

Aragorn felt a warmth on his arm and looked down to see the Dwarf looking on with delight and astonishment. Gimli leaned on Glorfindel to peer down at Legolas. 'He is awake!'

Legolas' eyes moved to the Dwarf's strong, resolute face and to Aragorn's astonishment, he smiled weakly. '_Elvellon,'_ he said. Gimli nodded and patted Legolas' good shoulder kindly and the Elf's eyes slipped shut once more and he leaned his head back against the rolled up blanket that had served as a pillow.

Aragorn and Glorfindel shared an astonished glance and Glorfindel smiled once more and slipped his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder and lifted him to a sitting position. Legolas' eyes flickered open. Aragorn thought he looked dazed but that was no surprise and his lips were parted and his eyes widened, looking up at Glorfindel.

Glorfindel glanced down at Legolas and raised an eyebrow, sighing. 'We need to get you dressed,' he said in a business-like tone that brooked no nonsense. 'You must ride with Aragorn,' he repeated carefully. 'I am getting you dressed and up.'

Legolas gave a slight groan but nodded his understanding. Aragorn felt suddenly hopeful that perhaps this was the fever breaking rather than merely a moment of lucidity, for there was no protest. And he had thought there would be.

It was a painful process but Glorfindel was swift and merciless and Aragorn helped him. Glorfindel pulled Legolas up against him and Aragorn dragged his shirt over his head. He pursed his lips at the sight of the red scorch marks on the Elf's skin from the cupping but there was nothing to be done and he carried on regardless when Legolas groaned suddenly and slumped sideways so his head rested upon Glorfindel's shoulder. Pulling Legolas' moss-suede tunic over his head, Aragorn was as gentle as he could be given the haste but again Legolas cried out softly. Aragorn winced in sympathy.

Glorfindel took a small flask from the folds of his tunic and unscrewed the lid. 'Drink,' he commanded and Legolas lifted his long green eyes heavily to the Elf-lord's and Glorfindel cradled his gaze for a moment and smiled. 'Drink,' he said again, more gently and Legolas dipped his head to drink. After only a few sips, Glorfindel stopped him. 'That is enough for the moment.' He smiled and pushed a tendril of pale gold hair away from Legolas' face. 'I am giving this to Aragorn. He will give you more if you need it.' Glorfindel glanced up at Aragorn. 'Miruvor,' he said, screwing the lid back on the flask. 'Use it if you need him to revive. I know Elladan gave you _sere-vanda_ to make him sleep. If he can sleep while you ride he may be heavier but easier to manage. And it will lessen the pain for him. But we need him to be aware of what passes here now so he will not be panicked when he awakens fully. And there may be times you need his eyes and ears.' He did not speak of the Orcs steadily moving North. 'How are your own supplies?'

'I have already checked,' Aragorn replied, mentally cataloguing the medical supplies he already had and being glad of the miruvor.

He gave a low whistle and Roheryn clopped slowly towards them and stood patiently while Aragorn strapped Legolas' bow and long knives onto the saddle. Aragorn put his foot in the stirrup and reached for the cantle of the saddle, hauled himself up and tried not to thump down on Roheryn's broad, comfortable back. The saddle was low at the front and he had easily sat Arwen there before. It felt odd to think he would have Legolas there but he did not think they had a choice.

'I will pass him up to you,' Glorfindel said, his hand rested upon Legolas' smooth head, slumped against Glorfindel, eyes half-closed and dreaming. 'I suppose you will hold him before you?'

Aragorn nodded. 'Yes. I can hold onto him then, talk to him as we ride. If I cross the river at the ford and then back again it may fool anyone that follows. I will leave you signs.'

Glorfindel hefted Legolas against himself and gently eased Legolas to his feet. 'Are you ready for him?' he asked. Then he leaned down and pulled Legolas towards him, lifted him easily and the Woodelf's head lolled back against Glorfindel's chest. For a moment, Glorfindel stood looking down at Legolas, and there was a tender concern on his face that would have had Legolas' heart jumping had he known. He stroked the damp hair back from the lovely, flushed face and then looked up at Aragorn.

Aragorn leaned down and slid his arm beneath the Elf's shoulders and heaved Legolas up. He was heavier than Aragorn expected for Glorfindel had lifted him easily as a child.

Glorfindel frowned. 'Careful Aragorn. He is not a sack of grain!'

Aragorn quashed his irritation. 'Perhaps you should ride Roheryn?' he said coolly.

Glorfindel paused for a moment. 'Perhaps I should.'

But he did not for at that moment, Legolas' eyes flickered open and he struggled weakly until Glorfindel put a hand on his thigh and said gently, 'Peace now, Legolas. You are safe and with Aragorn. He will take you back to Imladris where the poison that is in your veins and the darkness of the Nazgûl will be purged. You know you can trust Aragorn. He will keep you safe from the darkness.'

Legolas looked down at Glorfindel for a long moment and then let his hand fall to Glorfindel's and bowed his head slightly. The braid was coming undone and long strands lifted on the breeze for a moment and whisked back, tickling Aragorn's nose, smelled of summer, meadow grass... He twitched his head back suddenly as if he had been hit.

'Avoid the shores of the river,' Glorfindel was saying. 'Seek the hills and downs where there is shelter. There are caves there too.' He shook his head at himself and smiled. 'You know this areas as well as I. But it is not what I would wish for you.'

'Nor I. But I will ride swiftly. They will not catch us.'

Legolas made a strange noise, strangled almost, and had Aragorn not known better, he would have said it was fear. Glorfindel looked up again at the Woodelf and his face was full of compassion.

'Amron, Gimli and I will follow,' he said reassuringly. 'We will be more secret and your trail will lead them away from us I hope. Now, go swiftly and in haste.'

Aragorn hoisted Legolas more securely against himself and Glorfindel pushed his legs so he was astride Roheryn.

Legolas groaned quietly. And the Woodelf was too weak, or disinclined to protest and Aragorn hoisted him closer so that Legolas moaned quietly and Aragorn remembered the poison was still turgidly pushing through his veins. Gimli had not yet returned from his task of finding a safe hiding place for Rhawion, and Aragorn regretted not being able to bid Gimli farewell for he had come to like the Dwarf. Glorfindel gave Aragorn one last glance and patted Roheryn's neck. 'Cross the river and ride fast, then cross back. Perhaps go to the Angle if you think you need to. Make haste.'

'Farewell then Glorfindel. Imladris.'

He did not wait any longer and Roheryn was impatient now, sensing his own nervousness but Roheryn was always a strength, could gallop for hours, not as fast as some but with stamina and endurance, and he was surprisingly agile and crafty, able to pick a trail along stones so he did not leave more than the faintest trail, careful not to bend twigs or push through bushes where his long tail hairs could be caught. A ranger's horse.

The skies had cleared now and there was a frost silvering the grass, stiffening it, and a stinging cold wind once he reached the top of the ridge. Aragorn saw that Amron stood on the ridge on watch and the Elf turned and waved. The sunlight caught on the steel of his sword for a moment and Aragorn gazed at him, too far away to warn him how that could be seen. But as if somehow he knew the Man's concern, he pulled his cloak over it and it was hidden from view.

Roheryn weaved his way through the gorse bushes, brushed through the ferns and bracken, away from the camp and then when they had put some distance between themselves and the camp, Aragorn urged the horse into a canter.

0o0o

tbc

Next: Aragorn and Legolas alone in the Wild. Elrohir and Elladan in Lothlorien, with Haldir.


	17. Chapter 17 Beneath the Hithaeglir

This is part of Chapter 18 really but I thought you might want this early rather than wait for me to finish the next part, which is Aragorn and Legolas.

Thank you as always to Anarithilen for her wonderful contribution. And to reviewers who make it worth posting. Orfan, Plivi, Nemo (Thank you sooo much- it helps to have those htings noted) ThisLittelPiggy, Freddie23, gginsc, IsaDaYDrMer, Melethen, Raisenet (I do hope you see some good in Elrohir in the end as well – stick with him please, I know I am relentless with him) Melusine. And my great friends at .esteliel who are drooling over the lovely pics by Mienpies and Melethen. This one is one I found myself though- but ummm, I think you'll like it

So on esteliel's site as ffnet won't let me post pictures - Just in case you have difficulty imagining Elrohir in his coldest, most sullen moment...Artist is Eventrue, deviant art. (PIc not loaded on ffnet)

**Chapter 17: Beneath the Hithaeglir **

The morning light was thin and cold, the grass stiff with frost. Slowly two black horses cantered along the river shore, their riders stared ahead and when one reined in and gazed towards the gloomy mountains, the other slowed to a standstill and followed his gaze. Snow-melt water swirled beside them, poured over the grey boulders and stones, white rimmed and frothed as the Bruinen plunged its ice-cold waters into the Greyflood. In the mid-distance the Hithaeglir lifted their snowy peaks into the weak blue sky.

Ahead of them, the last of the great holly trees that gave Eregion its name stood darkly against the sky. It always made Elladan sad to think of the glory that had once been, the loss.

Elrohir's thoughts must have been running along the same track for he suddenly said, 'It must have been beautiful once.'

Elladan shot him a look. Elrohir's mood was cooler, more settled now that they were away from the camp. But his own mood was conversely growing in irritation. He was still shocked at the way Elrohir had spoken to Glorfindel. Only Erestor could muscle up the gall to pick at the raw wound that was Gondolin and it was Erestor who had been blamed for Elrohir's bitter accusation. It was as much the slight to him that gave Elladan an uncharacteristic prickle of irritation at his brother's rages, the way he spoiled things, his incandescent recklessness.

Elladan turned to look at his brother, watched the steel-grey eyes turn to his and then slip away in shame. 'You will apologize?' Elladan said, because he already felt the dimming of Elrohir's furious energy, his Power; it had bled away into guilt. But Elladan would not relent so easily and did not look away.

Elrohir looked down at the pommel of his saddle, at Barakhir's silky black mane, the reins laying lax on his neck. 'I shamed myself,' he admitted. 'It was unforgivable.'

'What were you thinking?'

'I know not...I have not been myself.' He reached out to clasp Elladan's arm. 'I will do penance for it.'

Elladan said nothing for a moment but his lips thinned and he felt his own irritation flare into anger. Penance! It was always like this with Elrohir; fury and rage followed by deep recrimination, deep guilt, _penance_ beyond what was necessary. He was scared too for Elrohir, when he was deep in guilt, was even more reckless, even angrier, more cruel. It frightened Elladan.

'I will lead the company that goes to purge the High Pass on our return,' Elrohir said as if this were his penance. 'Orcs gather there and I will see it cleared,' he said.

Elladan tried to keep his temper but he felt it bunch like a fist, or distant thunder on a far horizon but gathering. He closed his mouth tightly to stop himself.

Elrohir turned anxiously to face Elladan, for he felt it too, 'Do you not think it enough? Do you not think Glorfindel will be content with what I offer?' he asked, sounding suddenly vulnerable.

'You offer what you wish to give!' he snapped back and saw Elrohir cut a wary look towards him. 'You enjoy battle,' Elladan said, his anger escaping him. 'You would clamour to lead the company. If you were truly sorry you would _ask_ for punishment. And give what was asked without rancour or complaint.' He kicked Baraghur into a canter and only heard Barakhir follow a while later. He remained ahead of Elrohir for some miles and knew that his brother was restraining himself and his horse, that he followed warily. He felt Elrohir prod lightly at his own dark mood, testing the depth of his own irritation.

Finally he turned and let the wind pull at his hair and cloak, Baraghur tossed his head and pawed the ground in frustration at having to stop.

'You are still angry.' It was a statement rather than a question as Elrohir drew alongside. 'I will do whatever you wish to make amends,' he said but it was not humble. 'I will do it for you, Elladan.'

'You should do it for yourself!'

'I do not care about myself.'

'_I _care.' Elladan bit his lip in anger, biting down on the words that he wanted to say, to pour out his scorn and venom..._Do you think punishing yourself will bring her back?_ He stopped himself. Neither could bear that discussion, not even now after all the years. Instead he threw back, 'You were too hard on Legolas.'

Elrohir stared at him in surprise. 'It still rankles that I gave him _Cristôl_? I tell you, Elladan, I know I was right. He was submerged in the nightmares, believing Rhawion still in the Tower. Either his heart would have given out or he would have left and returned there had I not drugged him.'

'You were too hard on him,' Elladan persisted, remembering the violence with which he thought Elrohir had administered the drug. But he knew too that the same violent passion had fought for Legolas' life and that Elrohir had poured his healing into the Mirkwood Elf's veins, thrust back the venom that was heating his body to a frenetic break down, pounding his heart till it would burst. It was true that Legolas was alive because of Elrohir.

'It was the best thing for him out here, given possible danger,' Elrohir insisted. 'I may have been harsh in my words, Elladan, and rough in subduing him but do you think I would deliberately harm him?' he asked honestly.

Elladan's eyes flicked up to meet his brother's and then looked away. He could not hide the doubt he harboured, nor could he hide it from his own brother.

Elrohir recoiled. 'Do you think I deliberately sought to hurt him?' he asked, shocked. 'I have cured him, poured my healing into him! What more could he want?'

'You persecuted him.' Elladan looked coldly at his brother now but he did not move Baraghur away.

'No! I was angry. Tell me you were not angry that he killed that Orc?' Elrohir demanded, irritable himself now, his long hair whipped by the wind. He turned Barakhir in a tight circle, his grey eyes full of indignation. Their knees jostled against each other.

'Of course I was!' Elladan retaliated. 'But your dislike did not start with the Orc but became sharpened, focused by it.' He glared at Elrohir challengingly. Barakhir shook his head and fretted and snapped at Baraghur. 'Why do you hate him?'

Elrohir reached and grasped Elladan's arm hard. 'I do not hate him,' he said but his teeth were clenched.

Elladan frowned and pulled his arm away irritably. 'Even before we set off, you ignored him, treated him with contempt.'

Elrohir stared at him and Elladan could feel the roil of thunderous emotion, but it confused him for a moment, for it was complex, not only anger, but beneath it, something else…He held Baraghur still, trying to search his brother's face, his emotions, for understanding.

Suddenly as if he barely knew he was saying it, Elrohir burst out with, 'He was with Berensul! The night we returned I saw him in the Hall of Light and I… And then I saw him again but with Berensul in the Rose Garden.'

'_Berensul_?' Elladan turned in surprised annoyance tilted his head to see better. 'Why should that bother you?' he said crossly. 'Erestor will have instructed Berensul and set him to spy upon Legolas. As he does to every stranger in our midst,' Elladan added but his irritation felt forced now, even though he thought Elrohir unreasonable. 'Who else did Legolas know? You have already heard the story of his arrival and why he was here. Berensul was the first friendly face he saw. Of course he would have sought him out, he is not to know what a philander Berensul is, nor his proclivities!'

Elrohir blinked slowly as if he realised something and his lips parted as if in surprise. He half closed his eyes and seemed for a moment, to be listening to himself.

Elladan felt his own annoyance drain away for he could not sustain it. He heard his voice lapse back into the patterns of reasonableness and calm. 'Half the maids can talk of nothing else. They would lose their hearts and half of them their heads too if he so much as beckoned. He is a Prince after all, they are saying, even if it _is_ only Mirkwood and he hardly acts like one. But so far Legolas has disappointed them all; it seems the son of Thranduil is not going to disgrace himself with any of them.'

Elladan sighed and finally, believing he had reasoned as much with himself as with Elrohir, he said, 'Come brother, we have far to go and Legolas will have left for home himself by the time we return. You may never see him again.'

Elladan clucked his tongue to Baraghur and eased into a canter. It was a moment or two before he heard Barakhir draw alongside and he glanced across to his brother. Elrohir's long hair twisted in the wind and his cloak was pulled to one side. He twitched it back over Barakhir's rump and pulled it round himself as if he were cold but Elrohir was never cold. He burned.

0o0o

They let their horses graze and drink at a clear, cold stream for a while and stood gazing ahead, at the Mountains with their veils of mist and cloud hiding the high summits.

'The Dwarves say that Balin has gone there, to reclaim the Lost Kingdom,' Elladan mused and Elrohir followed his gaze across the Sirannon and he listened hard for the sound of the Stair Falls but there was nothing. Instead a still, black lake lay silent between them and the Gates of Moria, but they would not tread the paths of the dark Pit. 'I fear his quest is futile. He is already lost...' Elladan had that faraway look that haunted him when lost in foresight.

Not that anyone needed the gift to know that Balin was lost, thought Elrohir, he remembered their last journey into the dark... There was _something_ down there, in the Black Pit, some nameless terror. _Shadow and flame...Unspeakable terror..._They had all felt it. Aragorn was with them and they had crept silently through the abandoned realm of Khazad-dûm, barely breathing for the fear that pressed around them, a tangible thing, almost a creature of itself... Many things dwelt still in the deeps of the world, and they feared awakening the Presence that slept but lightly in the belly of the dark. Elrohir knew it was from long ago, far away, from lands that were perished and drowned, he knew_ It_ in his rich Noldor blood, the blood of Finwë.

Then came the drums in the deep, the drums from which they fled...but they awoke in him that strange exhilaration, his lust for blood and it was only Aragorn's fear that drew him onwards, and out into the light.

Now in the cold winter evening, he felt Elladan's alertness, his watchfulness as they stood and gazed to the Doors of Moria. It did not escape him that Elladan glanced his direction and that his fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger, for that Feänorian blade surely must have trembled with fury to have sensed the Presence that stirred in the Black Pit for he felt Aícanaro stir.

The two horses nosed each other gently and then dropped their heads to the grass, snuffed at the ground.

'How many did he take with him, I wonder?' Elladan glanced at Elrohir, startling him from his thoughts. 'Do you think any have survived?'

Elrohir did not speak but he did not take his eyes away from the grey cliffs and his face was still.

'Perchance they yet live...' Elladan mused. 'They had survived the dragon after all.'

Elrohir glanced at his brother and a slight smile pulled his mouth. He needed Elladan to be strong, to be optimistic. It kept him from utter ruin.

'Come,' he said and pulled Barakhir's head up and nudged him forwards. 'We have many leagues to travel and I would find shelter before nightfall.'

'Then let us keep to the Mountains' edge and travel swiftly. We will come to the Gap within days. Or do we brave Caradhras?'

Elrohir said nothing but he felt a sensation like someone had lightly brushed their fingers down his spine.

'Perhaps Caradhras has had enough blood from us to let us pass unhindered,' Elladan was saying. 'The Gap is no longer safe unless we can escape Saruman's notice.'

Any way they went would be difficult. He turned his head and met Elladan's grey eyes that were a mirror of his own. 'Let us dare the Redhorn Gate,' he said. They looked at each other, remembering that dreadful day they found their mother, but that was not the only time they had crossed that way.

So they let the two horses canter steadily over the miles of grasslands that rolled and surged beneath them like the sea and only stopped to rest because it was too dark to keep riding for there was no moon and clouds streaked across the sky, obscured the stars.

They lit no fire but each took a turn to watch and the horses stood by, heads low and resting one hoof. Elrohir stood and listened to the silence of the Wild, the small scratching of beasts in the undergrowth, in the heather and on the hard stony ground. He heard a rabbit scream as a stoat caught it unawares and the screaming went on and on and he was reminded of Legolas.

It had been years since anyone had challenged them. Glorfindel had said once that they wore their grief like a badge, like a banner it rode with them. The Elf lord had asked Elrohir if what they did would purge him of their self-hatred, their guilt. Elrohir had stared at him in stony silence, and then turned and slowly, emphatically, defiantly slit the stomach of a fatally wounded Orc, reached into to its hot body and pulled slowly the steaming entrails from the screaming Orc's belly. Even Glorfindel had turned away and never asked again.

And when Aragorn was young and rode out with them the first time against Orcs, Erestor had remarked upon the boy's wide-eyed stare and his trembling at the horror of their violent retribution, for he was barely blooded and they had not relented. Elrohir had strode between the dying and wounded Orcs and dispatched them slowly, inflicting torment where they could...for revenge, for punishment, to heal themselves... Afterwards Elladan had held Estel and Elrohir told him how they found their mother...the rags she was left in, the blood on her thighs, the way she screamed and tore at Elrohir, who had been her beloved son...

That was the last time they had been challenged.

Until Legolas.

Until the Mirkwood Elf who could not even stick an arrow in his own kin to save them from the torment of the Orcs, had challenged him.

Elrohir felt his hands shake. Like a wave, a surge of ...something flooded him, pounded in his veins and his chest was tight and full, like it had been when Elladan reminded him he would never see Legolas again. It must be fury with Legolas, he told himself, for sparing the Orc when his beloved mother was not spared one moment of agony, not one indignity, not one rape...His breath shuddered between his lips.

He had not wanted to help Elladan heal Legolas. He had wanted to hurt him. An impulse so strong it made him tremble, and to his horror, had stiffened him. His eyes had been drawn irresistibly to Legolas' half naked body, and even now the memory of it emerged from his dark thoughts irresistibly; long, pale gold hair looped over his own arms, cool silk, smelling of meadow-grass in Summer, and the long eyelashes fluttered in pain and anguish against his flushed cheek. When the Elf had strained and struggled against him, against the poison and pain, he had felt a deeply erotic thrill as now and his sex had leaped and strained against his breeches. He had almost leaned down and kissed Legolas... the painted spirals and swirls on his chest, his lean and muscled torso, his strong arms...beautiful, he thought. An image leapt unbidden into his thoughts, of Legolas, head thrown back, lips parted in panting gasps of pain, in ecstasy, in a cry of orgasm.

Elrohir half-closed his eyes and his lips parted, aware of the lust that uncoiled in his belly, throbbed in his own sex. When he had poured his crimson Power into Legolas' veins, to fight the poisoned clouds in his blood, the Elf's eyes snapped open and fastened on Elrohir's, long green eyes, deepest green like the Sea. Elrohir had stared at the high cheekbones, strong, beautiful face, as he had when he had passed Legolas in the Hall of Light in Imladris with the sun gleaming in his long, pale hair and his eyes wide with recognition, astonishment, a naive innocence that was not quite innocence.

No, not innocence whatever Elladan believed. There was something about Legolas that was intensely aware, as if he wore his naivety like a cloak that could be flung off at any moment. He just did not know what he would find beneath. The edges of his nerves fluttered and there was a strange churning in his belly. Suddenly he wanted more than anything, to see Legolas again. And now though he stood miles from the Elf and in the empty wilderness, the darkest night, Elrohir found himself stirred beyond what was natural and he hated himself for it, hated Legolas for provoking it in him when he had for so long repressed all desire, sought its outlet in killing instead.

Aícanaro hissed in his sheath. Instantly Elrohir broke from his thoughts and came to stark awareness. The horses' heads came up and their ears pricked forwards, both staring into the dark. Elrohir leaned down and touched Elladan on the shoulder.

Elladan immediately sat up, pushing his long hair back, then he reached for his Feänorian knife, slid the blade slightly from its sheath. A blue glow slipped from its steel edge.

'They are far off as yet,' he murmured. 'Even so I would not wish to caught out here in the dark.'

Elrohir nodded and followed the direction of the horses' heads. They were silent, knew better than to make a sound. 'Cast a glamour,' Elladan whispered, 'so their eyes glance off us.' Elrohir glanced at him questioningly. 'There are but two of us,' Elladan replied to his wordless question.

Elrohir nodded agreement. He spread his hands out and looked down at his fingertips, thought a spider-web of gossamer and twilight spinning about them, hiding them in shadows and dusk, swathing them in glinting light and shadow so they became a miasma...In the cloud of twilight he had created, the horses were like statues, grey boulders and Elladan's ghostly thin figure rose slowly to his feet and there was a frost-white blade, Alcarinwë in his left hand and in his right, a dagger of blue-silver fire...

Out of the dark, grey shapes ran like drunken men and scuttled for these were Orcs of the Mountains, not the Uruks of Dol Guldur, and unused to the flat plains. But the light was still weak and thin, and the earth still slept. The Orcs lurched and hobbled and called strange unearthly screeches. Nightmares.

'They are hunting,' Elladan murmured so quietly that Elrohir barely heard him. They did not ask what. 'Do we turn upon them or let them pass?'

Elrohir did not bother to answer. Both knew they could not let them pass.

'How many?'

'I see ten close by. There could be more. Scouts perhaps.'

Elrohir felt Aícanaro hiss and uncoil in his sheath, the black blade thirsted for blood and who was he to deny it? 'Come then. Let us feed.'

He kept the glamour still about them but it seemed the Orcs could perceive something subtly different in the air for they stopped and stared and shifted around the space where the brothers stood. Narrow yellow eyes glittered in some unholy light, shuffled slightly to stand together in a rudimentary fighting formation but it merely served to make them easier to mow down, and they looked about themselves left and right uneasily. Elrohir smelled their fear. Through the glamour their fear tinged the air red. Slowly, silently like wraiths, the Sons of Thunder lifted their blades of white fire and darkness.

A chittering howl went through the Orc scouts. Swiftly Aícanaro slit their flesh and slashed their bloody veins. The blade sang its joyous slaughter as it severed their tendons and bones. Black blood spattered over their hands, faces and he almost laughed with glee at the mess, the black blood soaking into the dry earth, the spilled entrails hot and steaming in the cold air. He wreaked havoc, enjoyed their fear, drank it like a potent wine, was heady with exhilaration. Aícanaro sang with vicious joy. Barakhir pounded an Orc's head with his hooves, beat it into the earth, a bloody pulp. Tattered flesh strung on ribs and bones.

It was quickly over for the Orcs could not see more than a glint of metal or the glitter of their silver-grey eyes. And then not an Orc was left breathing and Elrohir stooped and grasped the greasy black hair of one and lifted its head. With one strike, he cut the head from its neck and watched the tangle of purple veins spurt black blood over his hands, spatter his face, his lips like an orgasm. Slowly he licked his lip and tasted the strangely copper tang of blood, like his own, he thought. He jammed a sword into the ground blade first and lifted the head onto the hilt. There are none left alive, he thought pitilessly and that made him remember Legolas; how he had looked when Elrohir strode into the camp having found his Orc dead, with a green-fletched arrow through its throat. Legolas had not even risen to his feet, merely sat up, long legs stretched out and tangled with blankets. He had leaned back on his hands so his long, flaxen hair streamed down his back and his sleepy green eyes lifted to meet Elrohir's. When he had defied him, Elrohir felt furious and exhilarated and wanted to hurt Legolas, to strike him hard across the mouth so there was a smear of blood on his lips, like there was on Elrohir's now. He wiped it with the back of his hand, looked down at Aícanaro. The blade was bloodied, strings of gore strung viscously from the blade and he watched Aícanaro drink, the blood simply melting into the blade. A sacrifice. Aícanaro fed. He felt its satisfaction, and he did not wipe the blade before he sheathed it.

'And the others?' Elladan looked across the dark grasslands to where they knew the main Orc group were. Elrohir felt a strange dislocation, seeing the grey eyes, star-shot in the dark, knowing it was the mirror of his but flushed and excited. Warm. Not the coldness that he knew was on his own.

'We cannot leave them.'

'Well then...'

'Well then...'

They waited, hidden in the miasma he had created, and this time they did not crash in together. This time, the miasma cloaked them separately and they struck in silence and moved quickly between the Orcs so they were confused and frightened and some of them ran. Elladan drew his bow and brought two down but three escaped and Elrohir found himself thinking that Legolas would not have missed. Elrohir swiftly killed the three who converged upon him and whistled for Barakhir and leaped upon his back to ride down the escaping Orcs. Aícanaro was spattered with black blood and festooned with strings of flesh and gore. It was a bloody slaughter in the dark until suddenly he heard shouting and looked back over his shoulder to see that Elladan was no longer astride Baraghur and the horse had been caught by the reins by two Orcs and was rearing up, dashing his hooves against the unclean hands that had caught him.

Turning Barakhir sharply, Elrohir galloped back to a small knot of Orcs who were struggling now to hold the horse. Elrohir raised his sword and charged through them, slashing and hacking and Baraghur broke free, lashing out with his back hooves amid howls, and plunging into the Orcs furiously with his teeth bared and biting hard.

Elrohir caught sight of Elladan's white face, blood from a cut on his cheek. Elladan was on the ground amongst a gang of Orcs, whose blades hacked and fell about them. For a moment, Elladan's sword, Alcarinwë, flashed white streaked with blood but the strokes were heavy and tired and Elrohir felt a moment of panic as he saw Elladan go down beneath the knot of Orcs.

Recklessly he plunged into the Orcs and slashed wildly, fear not for himself, made him careless.

'Too many!' Elladan shouted weakly, 'Get out!' He was half kneeling in the mud, Alcarinwë held above and struggling against the wildly, unpolished hacking blades above him.

'Never!' Elrohir shoved two Orcs back and slashed one's throat, slicing through the belly of the other as he turned. They were so slow, ponderous, carrion, he thought almost dispassionately as he turned and brought Aícanaro round in a wide circle so the Orcs dropped back, one clutching at its chest and falling to its knees.

'Know with whom you deal!' Elrohir snarled at them. 'We are the Sons of Thunder and you will die. I will stick your heads on your own pikes!' He bared his teeth and threw himself onto their short stabbing blades, both hands now on Aícanaro and there was the unearthly sound of the sword hissing through the air, the air almost singing along its edge, to meet a dull thud of flesh. Behind him, Elladan had been able to struggle to his feet and now the Orcs fell with a familiar regularity that made Elrohir's heart soar with fierce elation. He raised his voice in a battle cry and heard Elladan join him and together they charged the remaining Orcs, who scattered. Barakhir's whinny of fury and the crunch of bone told Elrohir how one Orc at least met its death and he could hear Baraghur charging after another.

It was quick then, the slaughter, until he stood over the last Orc, the one across whose chest he had swiped Aícanaro. It tried to shuffle away from him, clutching its pumping wound and staring up at him with hatred in its narrow yellow eyes.

Elrohir smiled nastily. 'You have maimed and tortured and killed my people. You have gnawed on the bones of children, raped women, killed for pleasure,' he said, breathing hard. He leaned on Aícanaro, let the tip rest on the ground so it could feed on the blood and fear. 'Now I will leave you as a warning for your kind that the Sons of Thunder will exact retribution.'

He looked about for something that would serve but could only find the short blunt blades used by Orcs. There were scrubby trees and bushes around them and he strode towards a young birch tree and reached up for a long thin limb. Behind him, he heard Elladan's voice calming the horses and praising them for their help and courage. He could hear the Orc's rasping breath and its squeals of pain like a stuck pig, and felt Aícanaro slide and almost stretch with languorous pleasure. He was pleased there was one Orc left alive that he could leave as a warning...

And then a treacherous memory of Legolas arose, how he had leaned back on his hands when Elrohir challenged him, merely sat up, long, flaxen hair streamed down his back and his green eyes lifted to meet Elrohir's...'This is not honourable, to torture your enemy. Are we not better than they?'

He paused, his hand on the slim branch of a silver birch. It was this act that had led to his unforgivable words to Glorfindel, who had only ever given him cause to love. He bowed his head slightly.

'Do it then,' the Orc was croaking out. 'I would have fucked your brother and eaten your heart while he screamed.'

All guilt fled at that and Elrohir tore the branch from its trunk and stabbed it into the ground, his blood hot and spitting. Swiftly he drew his knife and with a few short cuts, had sharpened it into a point. He turned the Orc onto its stomach with his foot and seized its gnarled and taloned hands, tied them roughly behind its back, listening to its gurgling cries and curses. Then he lugged it upright. It wriggled uselessly and blood suddenly flooded hot and viscous from the wound in its chest and over Elrohir's hands. The Orc was heavy, stank but Elrohir lifted his lips in a cold smile and breathed in its fear, its cold hate that matched his own.

'They will have you,' the Orc panted, its mouth stretched in a parody of his own thin, cruel smile. 'They hunt you. You think you are unbeatable but the Masters have you.'

'I think I will do to you what you thought to do to my brother,' Elrohir hissed in its face. There was a moment of fear in its yellow eyes and then it spat disgustingly at him. Its phlegm stained his black tunic and he felt his dark lust and hate rear its head, curl up his spine so it filled him.

'Elrohir?' It was Elladan, standing behind him, his long hair fell around his shoulders and his face was concerned, anxious. 'Kill it and let it be damned.'

Elrohir was standing with the Orc struggling against him, to breathe, to wriggle free and he was hard with bood-lust and anger, when into his mind came Legolas, struggling against him, writhing sensuously as Elrohir tried to force his mouth open to swallow the _Cristôl_. Elrohir breathed hard, eyes half closed in lust and lifted the Orc as if he would impale it like he wished to impale Legolas and it screamed, like Legolas had screamed with terror of his nightmares...like his mother had screamed when he lifted her from the filth and blood. Abruptly he threw the Orc from his, drew Aícanaro and slit its throat. Its yellow eyes were fixed upon him as the life slid from it and its eyes stopped moving and glazed in death.

'Elrohir?' Elladan put his hand upon his arm, concerned, confused. But Elrohir shook his head. He did not understand that chaos of emotions that churned around him now, and he did not wish to speak of it, could not for he did not know the words that could express the lust and hate and fear and guilt that all sharpened and focused onto the fulcrum that Legolas had become.

0o0o

Next chapter: Aragorn and Legolas.


	18. Chapter 18 Alone in the Wild

**Especially for Anarithilien because she was missing Aragorn and wanted some Aragorn/ Legolas bonding.**

**Special thanks to Spiced Wine for proof reading for me and for Silmarillion advice!**

Thank you as always to those who comment and review- it is so encouraging and I am an unapologeticically needy writer. So special thanks to iiionly, IsaDaYDrEaMer, gginsc, ThisLittlePiggy, Melusine, Melethen, Kimberley kim, Freddie, orfan, (hope this is better!) Pilvi –thank you, Nemo- thank you for the tip off!

**Chapter 18: Alone in the Wilds**

At first it was easy, thought Aragorn, riding with Legolas held against him. Legolas was drugged asleep, his head lolled heavily against Aragorn's chest and his eyes stayed closed. He cried out a little now and again as they jogged over rougher paths or Roheryn stumbled slightly. But Aragorn knew he could never fall from Roheryn's broad, safe back, even when he urged Roheryn into an easy canter, knowing they had to make haste, had to have travelled enough distance before night fall.

The gorge into which the Bruinen flowed was ahead of them and Aragorn thought Luin Aglar close enough that they would reach it within two days. For now all they had to do was make sure they were far enough away from the Orc band to be safe. But Roheryn had done this and more on many occasions, and Aragorn urged him onwards, clasping Legolas before him. They clattered over stones and rocks, and dust flew from their hoofs. They splashed over the river and galloped up the bank along the shoreline, leaving a clear trail, heavy hoof prints in the mud, and then up into the foothills of the mountains where it was rock, and their trail ended. Carefully, slowly, Aragorn steered the horse back down a narrow and steeply descending track to the river and they began to pick their way between the tall trees and willows along the shore. When they reached a little known ford, they crossed and found a narrow deer path where their own trail would quickly be lost amongst the smaller hoofs of the deer.

He listened carefully to Legolas' slight gasping exhalation as they cantered and eased back into a walk when he thought the gasps became too distinct. He had one arm around Legolas' lean waist to keep him from falling and thought the Elf would protest that too, but now and again he felt Legolas' fingers creep up to his arm and hold on so he knew it was needed. Once he felt the Elf slipping sideways and the steady Roheryn immediately adjusted his gait to allow Aragorn to pull Legolas back upright. His long, pale hair lifted on the wind and his body was overly warm against Aragorn's. It was long since Aragorn had held anyone like this and he found himself thinking often of Arwen, and talking to Roheryn, as he always did, but to Legolas too, telling him things he would not say had he thought Legolas awake.

He stopped to let Roheryn rest and because Legolas had cried out more frequently in the last hour than before and Aragorn felt he should give him some more _sere-vanda_ and perhaps miruvor if he awoke.

He drew Roheryn to a halt beside a boulder that he thought he could easily step onto and hold Legolas at the same time, and at first, this seemed to work. However as he slid off the horse and balanced on the boulder to ease Legolas down, his foot slipped and he lost hold of Legolas, and could only reach out uselessly as the Elf fell to the ground with a hard thump. With a cry, Aragorn threw out his hands to try and stop Legolas' fall but he was too slow and the Elf gave a sharp gasp of pain and his green eyes flew open. He spoke rapidly in his own Silvan dialect first and it was a moment before Aragorn could understand. He leaped off the boulder and crouched beside Legolas, who closed his eyes again and moved his head weakly.

'Legolas, I am sorry. I let you slip from my grasp. I am sorry, are you hurt?' Aragorn slowly eased his hands along Legolas' arms feeling for any swelling or fractures though he did not think it hard enough a fall for that. Roheryn snuffed at his hair in concern and then dropped his head to tear up the thin grass. The horse lifted its head to watch Aragorn, munching the grass and then tearing up more.

Aragorn half- lifted Legolas and propped him against the boulder, pulling his cloak about him for the air was cold and crackled with the promise of frost at least. He fumbled in his saddlebag and his cold fingers found the flask of _sere-vanda._ He pulled the stopper out and lifted it gently to Legolas' lips. At first he resisted but Aragorn rested the Elf's head against his shoulder so he could not easily pull away; it was a measure of how weak he was that it was easy to tip a few swallows of the amber cordial into his mouth. Quickly, Aragorn coaxed him to drink a little miruvor afterward. Green eyes fluttered open and he focused on Aragorn for a moment.

'How do you feel?' Aragorn asked anxiously.

Legolas tried to lift his hand to his eyes but it was too much of an effort and he let his hand drop back down to his side. 'Not good,' he murmured. Then he opened his eyes and seemed to notice his surroundings. 'Where is Glorfindel?'

'We have come on ahead,' Aragorn reminded him. The Elf's eyes fluttered open and he half turned to listen. For a moment he seemed to consider but then his head dropped onto his chest and he gave a low groan.

'Do you remember that you are riding with me and the others will follow?' Aragorn did not mention his brothers. He let his own senses reach out, felt the heat of the body leaning against him, the heaviness of his head as it rested on his shoulder.

'We will stop for a while. Let Roheryn rest,' Aragorn said carefully.

Legolas did not speak but sat hunched over and head bowed miserably. Aragorn looked down at the Elf's smooth head, his hair fell forward and covered his face but it was clear he was in great pain and barely conscious.

'Perhaps we should stop for a few hours,' he said, but Legolas did not raise his head or speak. Aragorn sighed and looked about. They had stopped near the river shore and scrubby trees and bushes hid them from view and he could hear the river nearby. Roheryn grazed peaceably. The horse raised his head and regarded Aragorn thoughtfully. 'We can stay here for a few hours,' he repeated hesitantly. 'Roheryn could do with a rest.'

He gently steadied Legolas so he was sitting upright at least on his own and rose to his feet. He slackened Roheryn's girth and slid the saddle from his back and took off his bridle so at least the horse could graze in comfort.

Legolas wobbled a little and then carefully lowered himself to the cold ground and laid his head on his arms. Aragorn threw the Elf's cloak over him and huddled in his own for it was cold, the sky was grey above him.

Aragorn turned away, wondering if Mirkwood Elves were very different from those of Imladris with whom he had grown up for the most part. It seemed so, for when he glanced back. Legolas had raised his head and was staring at him with those strange, disconcerting green eyes that felt like they were slowly unravelling him, who he was, what he thought, what he felt. And then suddenly Legolas' gaze darted away, quick as a lizard. He looked upwards and squinted against the sky, then down into the grass for a long while. Eventually, he lay his head back on his arms and his eyes slid into reverie.

Aragorn decided he could not fathom this strange Elf in green and brown who hailed from, Mirkwood, who had brought the news of Gollum's escape.

Aragorn was a little ashamed now of his first reaction to the news, but it had been a long, unpleasant search for Gollum and he could not help the bitterness of his escape. It seemed to him that Gollum had been too easily released to clamber amongst the trees and it was no wonder he had escaped. Worse, at the council, Aragorn thought Legolas barely touched by the importance of the news, his fair face inscrutable and masked, his stance tall and graceful, at ease amongst the great and the Wise. He had been aloof, completely silent for the whole council apart from his one message and, having given his news, he simply melted away into the gardens before Aragorn even had time to question him.

He glanced across to where Legolas seemed to sleep at least, though he twitched now and again and his hands seemed to flutter as if he were firing those lethal arrows at some unseen enemy. It had been a surprise to more than just Aragorn that the Mirkwood Elf had stayed long enough to join the search for any remaining Nazgûl. But Legolas had proved himself on this journey, and Aragorn had felt a growing admiration for his prowess and a surprising respect for the way he had befriended Gimli, for whom Aragorn felt a genuine liking and warmth. He shook his head to himself, admitting that Erestor was right about Mirkwood; there was certainly more to them than met the eye, certainly more to them than their dubious reputation.

It was late afternoon before he stirred Legolas. Legolas' skin was even paler and though sweat glowed on his forehead, he was cold.

'There is _sere-vanda_,' Aragorn suggested looking anxiously into Legolas' eyes.

Legolas shook his head but he was frowning, eyes narrowed with pain.

'Are you sure? It will help...'

'No.' Legolas' voice was quiet, yet harsh. He licked his dry lips and managed to croak out: 'Glorfindel said Orcs.' He closed his eyes and leaned forwards, face creased in pain.

'Yes. But we have left them far behind,' Aragorn said reassuringly.

Legolas shook his head weakly and tried to reach out to Aragorn. 'You need me...' he murmured. 'Stay alert.'

Aragorn raised his head and looked about, wondering how far away the Orcs were. He could not see or hear anything, but he was no fool. Legolas would be far more likely to sense Orcs than he, even sick as he was.

'Are you able to stand?' Aragorn asked him, looking down at Legolas. 'We have to get up on Roheryn. I think it might be best if I get you up first and then I will mount behind you. Can you manage to stand?'

'I will try.'

Aragorn slid one arm beneath Legolas' broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscles and lean chest. Legolas draped his own good arm over Aragorn's shoulder and Aragorn hauled him to his feet but Aragorn heard him hiss with pain and his teeth were clenched. He swayed against Aragorn, and then leaned wearily against Roheryn.

'Just...let me...' Legolas paused, seemed to gather himself, one arm across the horse's withers, the other dropped loosely at his side. His head was bowed. He tried to lift his hand to his head, but even such a simple action seemed a great struggle for him. 'I need a moment. I am sorry.'

'Let me give you a leg up,' Aragorn said feeling a rush of sympathy. So Legolas leaned against the sturdy, patient horse, and Aragorn boosted him upwards so he landed heavily, swayed in the saddle, clutching at Roheryn's mane until Aragorn mounted and steadied him.

Aragorn paused for a moment to let the Elf adjust but his head was still bowed, the breeze lifting his long hair gently as if peeking beneath in concern. Aragorn frowned slightly. He was pushing Legolas he knew, and they had no conversation once they resumed their journey onwards.

They made their way following the course of the river, close enough to drink if need be but did not walk on the soft, muddy banks, and slowly the flat grasslands gave way to scrubby trees and bushes, and the flat terrain rolled slowly into the foothills of the Mountains. They rode carefully, and Aragorn kept all his senses alert for signs of other travellers, and Orcs. Once he saw the thin spire of campfire far off but it was no Orc fire, and too far away to be a threat. He considered briefly whether to make his way towards it, in case it was Rangers, but he dared not risk leaving his route to Luin Aglar where they were to meet Glorfindel.

Roheryn picked his way carefully through the woods, and the land sank into a valley whose sides were steep and rocky, with thin trees covering the cold earth. Aragorn knew this land well and made his way towards a cave where he had made camp many times before. Rangers used it occasionally and he knew there would be provisions for their own were meagre now that he could not hunt or forage.

At last it became so dark that he thought they must have passed the cave, but suddenly Roheryn veered off to the left. The horse had found it if Aragorn had not. There were no tracks to show there was even a shelter here, and the cliff was swathed in curtains of ivy and shrubs.

He let Legolas slide to the ground first, but he heard the whuff of pain as the Elf landed heavily and slumped against the horse for a moment. His hair was streaked with sweat. Aragorn looked down in concern and watched as Legolas sank rather gracelessly to the grass.

As was his custom, Roheryn snuffled in Legolas' hair as if ascertaining the Elf's condition, then the horse sighed heavily and nosed about in the thin, poor grass. Aragorn unbuckled the girth and slid the saddle from Roheryn's wide back, pulling off the bridle, and Roheryn shook his head. Aragorn carefully pushed aside the curtain of ivy that screened the cave from sight and entered. For a moment he felt plunged into darkness, but slowly his eyes adjusted as he looked around. It was as he had last left it, dry and sheltered from wind and sight.

He dropped the saddle and bags onto the floor, checking for signs of disturbance. Three small twigs were laid carefully over a flat stone almost by accident one might think, but it told him that Halbarad had been there recently, and he smiled and went back out of the cave.

Legolas had not moved when he returned, and did not look much better than he had before. His face was drawn and pinched, his eyes mere seams of green.

'Legolas?' Aragorn reached down and touched his hot forehead. Legolas winced and bit his lip. 'Sip some water first and then we will move.' Aragorn pulled the stopper from his water skin, held it to Legolas' lips and tipped it up.

Legolas raised a trembling hand and held the water skin steady, sipped a little, then pulled away. He nodded that he had had enough, lifted his eyes to Aragorn. His pupils were dilated, his skin very flushed. Thin red veins showed beneath his skin and Aragorn winced; clearly the poison had not been purged. It had spread. He thought there was a slight mottling of the Elf's face, a yellowish tinge to his skin.

Alarmed, Aragorn dropped to his knees beside Legolas. 'You need to rest,' he said, furious with himself that he had not realised the heat he felt from the Elf's body pressed against him as they rode was from the fever. Legolas fastened his gaze upon Aragorn, shook his head slightly and frowned. His long hand came up to his forehead and pressed it, then quickly dropped.

'Can you walk?' He slid his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder and helped him struggle to his feet.

Legolas stifled a cry, and Aragorn saw how he bit his lip to keep from further crying out. His fingers dug into Aragorn's arm and he swayed unsteadily. Walking was hard for the Elf, each step he took seemed endless and slow, and he winced every time he put on foot down on the cold ground. Roheryn swung his head round and watched them with patient brown eyes, then he plodded towards them and pushed his large, warm body next to Legolas, who stopped and smiled tightly. He slung one arm over the horse's broad back and the other over Aragorn's shoulder. Together, they slowly made their way into the cave.

Legolas said very quietly, 'How far have we to go? If I can rest a few hours I can go on we need to, if it means we get there tonight...'

Aragorn did not reply at first and was puzzled, for they were at least another full day away from Luin Aglar. 'We are more likely to run into a scouting or hunting party. We may even cross paths with Dunédain.'

'I had not realised they came so far south,' Legolas murmured. Aragorn frowned but said nothing for he thought Legolas merely confused and lowered him to the cave floor. He pulled a blanket over Legolas' shoulders for he was shaking even though his skin felt hot and burning to his touch. 'Why will you not have something that will ease the pain?' he asked, leaning down to look into Legolas' eyes.

Legolas swayed slightly where he sat and Aragorn caught his shoulder suddenly to steady him. Legolas' eyes snapped open and Aragorn dropped his arm immediately - the flash of intense danger in the strange green eyes that were suddenly alien and fey. But he blinked and instantly, the danger passed and he breathed.

'Forgive me,' Legolas said but his voice was slightly slurred and the strange, softer accent was more exaggerated, the vowels more elongated and the consonants softened more than usual as if he struggled to remember how to speak. 'It hurts a little.'

Aragorn smiled wryly.

'A lot then.' Legolas gave a tight smile back.

Aragorn paused and watched him for a moment. He made tiny movements, adjusting his position as if he could not get comfortable, and his mouth was thin and Aragorn realised it was normally wide and generous.

'I have some miruvor,' Aragorn remembered with relief, and rummaged in his saddlebags for the small flask. As he did so, his fingers brushed against the carefully packed flask of _Crystôl_ that Elladan had pressed into his hand as he left. He paused, feeling the glass smooth against his fingertips.

He pushed it away, pulled out the flask of miruvor instead. 'Here' He opened the stopper and passed it to Legolas, who stared at it at first, then reached out, but his hands trembled so violently that Aragorn gently closed his fingers around Legolas' and guided the bottle to his lips. At first Legolas cut him a wary glance with his sharp green eyes, but he did not fight Aragorn and let him help. Foolishly Aragorn felt he had won something then, like winning the trust of a wild animal and he smiled slightly as Legolas tipped his head back a little and let Aragorn hold the flask as he took three sips and then pushed Aragorn's hand away gently.

Legolas blinked up at Aragorn and his eyes were clear and the pupils although still dilated, seemed less starkly so. 'The sort of medicine I like,' Legolas said with a smile that was more genuine than any he had given so far.

'Glorfindel will only take that kind of medicine,' he smiled at his weak jest and Legolas smiled back.

'I am not as cold as I was,' he said and looked cautiously around the cave with a little more interest than he had shown before. 'What is this place?'

'It is a cave used by the Dunédain. I have used it many times and my cousin, Halbarad has been here recently. He left signs.'

Legolas nodded. 'I saw. We have our signs too in the Woods.' He shivered and let his gaze drop to the cave's dry earth floor. 'I must sleep if I can,' he said honestly but his eyes searched Aragorn's face. 'Will you manage to stay awake or do you wish for me to take the first watch?'

Aragorn almost laughed at the idea of Legolas taking any watch. He was not in the least convinced that Legolas would not plunge back into wild hallucinations and Aragorn himself awaken to a knife at his throat and accusations of being Sauron himself. 'No. You sleep. I will watch.'

'Can you bear to eat anything?' he asked next, and reached for the carefully packed lembas, feeling the waxed paper smooth against his fingertips. 'It may help and will make you stronger,' he added, unfolding the packet and spreading it open.

'I cannot,' Legolas said and his mouth was turned down in dislike. 'My mouth is dry and the idea of food makes my stomach churn.'

'Very well, there is water and I can find some berries or some roots,' he offered, knowing he sounded over-eager and childlike but it was always his way. He wanted to help, to make things better; it was the healer in him. 'I have to go and cover our tracks first. Will you be all right for a moment?' he looked at Legolas.

Legolas smiled. 'I know nothing of this poison, but it seems to be leaving me now. I feel stronger and I can hear more than the thundering of my own blood.' He smiled and Aragorn nodded, though he thought that if anything Legolas seemed worse.

It was dusk outside and he did not take long to find long branches with leaves still on them that he brushed lightly over the earth to hide their tracks. He checked too for signs that marked their passage, and made sure there were only clean breaks that did not show white wood or bent or broken twigs or leaves. When he was satisfied, he returned carefully to the cave. Roheryn was resting his back hoof, and swung his head to look when Aragorn entered. Legolas was asleep. A wisp of pale hair showed above the grey blanket. There was new hay in the corner, and Aragorn silently thanked Halbarad for stocking the cave well. There were blankets too, folded neatly on one side, and bedrolls. Dry kindling had been stacked too, but Aragorn dared not light a fire tonight. Orcs were stupid but they had a keen sense of smell. But the cave's real treasure was a small spring at the back. Roheryn had already drunk, and Aragorn leaned over to fill his and Legolas' water skins.

He returned, banging the stopper back in his for it lacked the elegant design of Legolas' where the stopper slid smoothly in and out and never seemed to leak. It was light and felt smaller too but took longer to fill, Aragorn noted, so it must hold more water. He looked at it curiously, then heard a slight noise and turned to see Legolas had sat up but was doubled over and his face hidden by his long hair.

'Legolas?' he dropped to his knees beside the Elf. 'I wish you would have some sere-vanda. It will ease the pain and help you sleep through the rest of the fever.' He pushed his hair back over his shoulder, and leaned down to look into the Elf's face. It was flushed, overlaid by a sheen of sweat. He trembled, and Aragorn thought he was even deeper in a fever than he had been. 'We are safe here,' he said reassuringly. 'You can rest.'

Anxiously he bit his lip as he looked at Legolas' closed eyes, damp, fevered skin. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking a more comfortable place for the Elf, then patted Legolas on the shoulder and rose, reaching for the bedrolls and shaking them out. They were made of sturdy canvas, filled with straw but smelled a little musty. He did not think Legolas would much care.

'Come Legolas, lie here. At least you can rest.'

'No...I... I cannot rest.' Legolas' teeth chattered and his whole body seemed suddenly to convulse. 'We m..must go on.'

Aragorn rubbed his hands over his face. Surely Legolas was not serious? It must be the fever, he thought. He twisted the ring of Barahir upon his finger. 'We cannot go on now, Legolas.' Roheryn gave a deep sigh and Aragorn, struck by sudden inspiration, said, 'It is dark and I dare not risk Roheryn. He may stumble and fall or go lame. Can we wait the night out here? I am tired as well.' As he said it, he realised that was true and Legolas looked up, his eyes suddenly very bright in the dark.

'Forgive me, Aragorn.' He bowed his head and Aragorn felt suddenly guilty and humble at the same time. 'I...have been...selfish.' Legolas wrapped his arms about his knees and laid his head on them. His eyes closed.

'Not selfish,' the Man said guiltily, not wishing to add to the Elf's burden. 'I am just not an Elf, I am afraid.'

There was a light snort of laughter. Aragorn stared. A smile flitted over Legolas mouth, and Aragorn felt a moment of ease.

'Do you think you can bear to eat a little lembas?' He remembered then he had promised to get something else and rose to leave but a hand, hot with fever, reached out and caught him.

'Please...stay. You do not need to go out again...If it makes you happy, I will eat the damned lembas.' Green eyes, fever-bright, flicked up to him and Aragorn gave a short laugh.

'It is not damned. In fact it is rather good.'

Legolas grimaced, and his mouth twisted in sudden pain. For a moment he stilled himself, eyes focused inwards and his whole body tensed. There was a shudder that seemed to tremble through his whole body, then pass.

'I have eaten lembas all of my life,' Legolas said and Aragorn looked up in surprise for the convulsion seemed to have passed as quickly as it struck. ' Good is not a word I would ever use to describe it.'

Aragorn laughed then in astonishment. 'I have never met an Elf who did not like lembas.'

'Perhaps you have never met an Elf from Mirkwood.' The smile was quick and blinding and Aragorn felt his jaw drop for a moment. 'We have heard that in Lothlorien, it is made by the lady Galadriel and her maidens. Perhaps it the Lady Undomiel and her maidens in Imladris.'

Aragorn felt his stomach and heart churn at the sound of her name on another's lips and smiled involuntarily. 'Who makes it in Mirkwood?' he asked to cover up the heat on his own face, and realised that he never heard of any lady's name in connection with Thranduil, yet here was his son.

'Galion.'

Was there a hint of mischief gleaming in the Elf's eyes, Aragorn wondered.

'And her maidens?' he asked, thinking it a strange name for a queen.

'Henchmen,' Legolas said helpfully and Aragorn shot him a puzzled look; there was definitely a delighted gleam in his green eyes.

Aragorn kept his own face impassive and played along. He glanced up with all the innocence he could muster and said, 'A strange way to describe a lady's handmaidens,' he joined in. 'Are they as light an their feet as the Lady Arwen?'

'Heavy on their feet and heavy in their hand,' Legolas grinned weakly and immediately winced slightly.

Aragorn grinned back and unwrapped the lembas that Glorfindel had given him. A light fragrance of fresh baked bread teased him, scented with something else, lemon and parley perhaps. He felt refreshed just from the smell and broke a wafer, handing one half to Legolas.

Legolas looked at it suspiciously, then reached for it. His fingers missed and he blinked, shook his head, then squeezed his eyes closed, let his hand fall away.

'Here,' Aragorn moved closer to him and took his hand, folded his fingers over the wafer and guiding it to his mouth.

'I am worse than useless,' Legolas mumbled but he took a small, tentative bite from the wafer and swallowed without chewing or tasting it. For a moment he held himself as if expecting something nasty, then lifted his head and looked at Aragorn in surprise.

'It tastes like...like...' He brought his hand to his mouth and took another bite, a bigger one and chewed carefully. 'It reminds me of... summer evenings. No, like harvest...'

Aragorn smiled and carefully ate his half. Arwen had made this, he told himself; she had sieved the flour and kneaded the dough, shaped it into long loaves, stroked it with milk for a glaze... he tried not to think of her hands on the long white loaf, running her hands along it...

'So... the lady Galion...' he said to distract himself from the uncomfortable and growing bulge in his breeches. Legolas laughed slightly and winced.

'Galion is my father's...um...housekeeper I suppose. His cook, accountant, nursemaid and tutor to his children...' He smiled.

'Not like Erestor then, 'Aragorn said, brushing the crumbs of lembas from his beard, his cloak.

'Erestor? Eru, no!' Legolas looked appalled. Aragorn smiled to himself and stole a look at the Elf, whose teeth were no longer chattering. He seemed a little refreshed by the water and lembas and Aragorn wondered if he could tempt him into taking a little sere-vanda, but decided that since Legolas seemed so recovered, he might leave it. It was true he would hear any approaching enemy better than Aragorn.

o0o0o

It was bitterly cold that night, even in the cave. It was November, Aragorn reminded himself, and any warmth that lingered in Imladris had long left the Wild.

He had persuaded Legolas to lie down on the bedroll, but his teeth had started chattering again and his skin felt cold and clammy. Aragorn had cast the blankets over him, but as soon as he lay down himself, he too felt cold. There seemed to be no alternative but to lie close to each other and benefit at from each other's heat. Legolas had not batted an eyelid at Aragorn's tentative suggestion and if anything, seemed surprised that the Man had considered it even worth mentioning.

Aragorn lay close but not touching, familiar with enough different customs to neither ask nor presume. He thought of the last time he had lain close to an unfamiliar body, in Umbar. His companion had no idea how near his proximity to the Heir of Isildur, and would have turned him over to the Corsairs without a second thought. Aragorn wondered idly what paths Uglor now travelled, if he had taken to the Black Ships as he had boasted. It had been worth putting up with his arrogance and assumptions Aragorn mused, to pick up valuable information that had helped Mithrandir guess the movements of the pirates...He let his thoughts wander down such paths and memories until they took him where he was happiest: treading the paths of Lothlorien to where a maiden wound white flowers between her fingers and sang idly...

...He dreamed of her body, pressed close against him, warm and smelling of summer, and meadow grass, somehow sweet. Aragorn felt a comforting warmth, liquid pooling at the bottom of his belly...her long, black hair, like a cloud of silk, her soft warmth that he wanted to bury himself in...

Long hair sifted over his shoulder, and he lifted his hand tentatively to stroke it, wanting to feel that softness. He felt himself burgeon with need for Arwen.

'There's something sticking into my back,' a weak voice snapped him out of his reverie like a slap. He looked at his hand where it was threaded with pale blond strands and pulled it away, hotly and cringingly aware of the hard, hot flesh that pressed against Legolas' body.

He chewed his lip and moved. 'Sorry. It's my knee.' He shifted so it could have been possible and ignored the muffled snort. 'Are you feeling better?' he asked as much to distract Legolas as himself.

'I am not as dizzy and confused as I was, I think. It is better without the sere-vanda. It confuses me.' A pause. 'Have you moved your sword so it is more comfortable?' he asked. Aragorn could hear the amusement in his voice, and felt a flush of embarrassment scald down his back, over his neck and cheeks.

'I was thinking of Arwen,' he admitted because not to was worse.

There was a silence. Legolas half-turned so he now lay on his back. Aragorn saw his beautiful face, straight nose, high cheekbones, full-sculpted lips, and the delicate point of his ears. His strange green eyes looked sideways at Aragorn.

'She is very beautiful.'

'She is.' The relief and pain of speaking about her.

'They say she is Luthien's likeness.'

'They do.'

Aragorn felt the stirring of the usual complex emotions: jealousy and possessiveness, mixed with an intense unworthiness. He stared up at the hard rock of the cave roof. He could hear the river beyond, sweeping its clear way through the night under the stars. But his thoughts dwelt upon the last time he had spoken of his love for the daughter of his foster father, the sister of his brothers. But he had never thought of her as a sister, the beloved Evenstar of her people...

'She has your heart?'

The Elf spoke gently. There was compassion in his voice, so strangely accented with its elongated vowels and softened consonants. Aragorn blinked.

'She does.'

'Ah.' He saw Legolas blink slowly and then he let his eyes close. 'No wonder. She must have broken many hearts.'

Something in his voice, the kindness, made Aragorn's heart squeeze, and he found himself wanting to confide everything in this strange Elf from Mirkwood.

'She has given me her heart too,' he found himself saying, and Legolas only blinked slowly, once.

'Then you must treasure it, for does she not have the Gift of Elros?'

'I would that she did not take this path.'

'But she does so for you.'

'Yes. But I wish she did not.'

'It is her Choice. And she has told you that she would rather love once and truly than love lightly and often?'

'Yes.'

'Then you are beyond blessed. How many of her kin have died and found none. It seems she is also blessed.'

Aragorn lay staring up the roof and wondered. He thought of Elladan who had never found love, and Elrohir who could not love. And Elrond whose heart was broken. Beyond him was Eärendil who sailed the skies it was said, forever sundered from his love and kin, and Luthien and Beren lay somewhere beneath the waves…

It seemed that Elros was the only one who had been happiest, and Aragorn felt peace creep into his heart. He thought there was a whispering song that must have been the spring at the back of the cave, or perhaps a breeze threading its way through the trees outside. He swore there was a green-gold light wavering in the dim cave and thought perhaps the sun had risen early, was shining through the new beech leaves...but it is November he thought sleepily, and night...His breathing deepened, and he drifted through beech trees along a meandering, burbling stream where cold clear water gurgled over granite and slate between the ferns...

0o0o

Morning crept upon Aragorn, whom would not have woken but for Roheryn snuffling at him. He threw his arm out and with the other, rubbed his beard. There was a strange noise near his ear... a strange light clacking, and his tunic felt damp. He had slept more peacefully than he had for years, but the sound drew him to full alertness. It was Legolas. His teeth were chattering again, his skin was cold and clammy, and the sweat from the Elf was the cause of damp on Aragorn's own skin. It seemed the reprieve was simply the fever gathering itself again for a greater onslaught. Aragorn rolled out of the blanket, knelt above Legolas, pressing his hand against his throat. The Elf's pulse slammed against Aragorn's finger, a racing, pounding thump, and he saw in the dim cave light that the red veins stood out more starkly, like threads. He could not see if the skin was mottled, but he thought it was likely given the pulse.

Aragorn watched Legolas for a while, carefully noting the small signs of distress: his eyelids flickered and his breath came in short, soft gasps. Aragorn catalogued in his head each symptom, each possible reason and cure...but he had only a choice between sitting it out, dosing the Elf with more _sere-vanda_, or giving him a further dose of _Crystôl_. He did not want to do any of them. He knelt back on his heels, thought that Elrohir would simply plunge his thoughts, his Power into the Elf's feä, fight the fire of poison with his own fire, wrestle for the Elf's life, vanquish the poison's violent spread with his own violent anger and passion...but Aragorn did not have that Power. He pulled his saddlebags towards him and rummaged inside for a moment. His fingers touched a small packet of folded waxed paper. Inside, he knew, were the small dried leaves of athelas.

He pulled out the folded packet and looked at it. He supposed he had nothing to lose. Athelas was not renowned for healing a fever, but at least it might bring some comfort, and relief from the hallucinations. He had nothing to heat water for he had not dared light a fire, so he simply opened the packet, slid the leaf between his palms and held them. He let his head bow and imagined how warm his hands were, that they were growing even warmer, as Elrohir had shown him. He let the heat pass from his hands into the Athelas, felt the dry, papery leaf fill and plump. The fragrance of Summer stole from between his hands. He leaned forwards and cupped his hands around Legolas' nose and mouth, waiting for him to breathe in the fragrance. He felt the hot breath on his own skin and the cool as the Elf exhaled and inhaled.

And Legolas' eyes snapped open. Utterly alien in that moment. Aragorn barely blinked before his hand was seized in a grip of steel. Next he knew he was thrown hard and landed face down on the cave floor. He grunted as the air was pushed out of his lungs by the unnervingly heavy body of the wood-Elf landing atop him, pinning him down. Small pebbles and grit tore at Aragorn's cheek, and he felt the tendons of his arm wrenched in screaming pain as Legolas twisted his arm behind his back, leaning over him so Aragorn felt his hot, feverish breath on his own ear, his cheek.

'Spawn of Morgoth!' the Elf hissed and Aragorn felt his tendons stretch, the bones almost dislocating.

'Legolas!' he managed to gasp, and he wriggled a little to shift the weight on his back. It was difficult to breathe. 'You know me. It is Aragorn.' He cried out then because Legolas wrenched his arm further up his back. He felt a soft crunch, and knew the next move would truly dislocate his shoulder. He froze.

'Where are they?'

Aragorn barely dared to breathe. He blinked, saw that the precious athelas was scattered nearby, lost in the dust and gravel. 'Who?' he gasped. He knew better than to struggle and lay as still as he could.

'Do not play me for a fool!' Legolas hissed again, and he leaned hard over Aragorn so his face was close. Aragorn could see the fine pores of his skin, the long lashes and bruises around his eyes from the poison. 'Where are your masters?'

Aragorn bit his lip for the pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth, tried to speak but the only sound that came was a slight cry of pain. Legolas reduced the pressure by a fraction, enough for him to whisper: 'I have no master. What do you speak of?'

With a cry of anger mixed with his own pain, Legolas bore down on him again. A drop of sweat slid down his face and onto Aragorn's own cheek. 'If you speak only lies I will not let you speak. I will not waste my time on you, slave!' There was a slide of steel whispering from a sheath, and Legolas' white knife lay against Aragorn's throat. He felt a thin line of blood trickle down his neck. Aragorn was suddenly very afraid.

'Legolas,' he managed to squeeze out. 'I am Aragorn. We rode out from Imladris with Glorfindel, with Gimli and Amron.'

'And then you left. You betrayed us. You left so you could warn the enemy.' Legolas pressed the flat of his knife against the nerves in Aragorn's neck. He felt his arm twitch involuntarily.

'No! We rode to the Angle, to meet with my own folk, the Dunédain, to ask for news of the Nazgûl.' Aragorn gasped. His heart thumped in his chest; he felt the sinews of his arm crack and strain.

'To meet with your own folk, and the Nazgûl is what you mean!'

'No. No. Legolas...Remember! You were injured in Phellanthir. You were poisoned. It was my brothers who healed you.' Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut against the pain in his arm and shoulder. Small stars of light exploded before his eyes; the nerves popping. Soon his shoulder would dislocate. Part of his brain wondered if Legolas would stop then, seeing that he was useless. But the knife pressed against his throat again, and he felt his artery pulse against the blade.

'Your brothers inflicted terror upon me,' Legolas spat accusingly. 'They disabled me with their medicines and potions! They tied me down so I could not escape.' There was no question that there was murder in Legolas' voice. Aragorn felt the Elf press down harder, his hot body strangely heavy, so strong. 'You helped them.'

Aragorn remembered how he had held Legolas down, how Elrohir had shoved his hand over the Elf's mouth, forced the _Crystôl _into him, how they had tied his hands with leather reins, how he had fought and fought, and wept...He had wept, thought Aragorn guiltily, because he thought they were abandoning Rhawion. Suddenly he saw himself as Legolas must; a Man of dubious descent who had brought Gollum to the Wood. That one action had led to slaughter among the wood-Elves. Aragorn had reprimanded Legolas for his folk failing in their trust, and when Legolas had been poisoned and in agony, he had helped his brothers to throw him to the ground, tied him tightly, forcing him to leave Rhawion locked forever in the dark...And Legolas had wept...

Aragorn closed his eyes. He could understand Legolas' mistrust, for he mistrusted and doubted himself.

He wanted to say: _I am sorry_ but there was a sob above him — from Legolas, he realised. The Elf's hand was on his throat, thumb pressing onto his windpipe. It was hard to breathe. His pulse throbbed once beneath the strong fingers, stars exploded before him again, and he felt pressure on the nerves in his neck. He felt his eyelids flutter. The last thought he had was that he was sorry that Arwen would never know how he died...

o0o0o0

When he opened his eyes, Aragorn realised he was not dead but was uncomfortably trussed like a turkey. He lay on his side with his hands tied behind his back, knees bent and his ankles tied on a short leash to his hands. It made his back arch and strained his spine horribly. There was a sharp pain around his throat where Legolas must have pinched his carotid artery, and caused his blood pressure to drop. _That is why I passed out, _he realised._ So he does not intend to kill me,_ he thought then and was ashamed of the relief he felt.

He blinked, saw that Legolas was sitting a little distance away from him, his knees drawn up to his chin. A wickedly sharp knife gleamed in his left hand, which he flipped between his fingers. His green eyes gleamed like the blade when he saw that Aragorn had awoken. He looked at the knife thoughtfully, head tilted so his long hair slid over one shoulder. His hands did not tremble now. The gaze he fixed upon Aragorn was intense, focused.

'Now we talk properly,' he said.

Aragorn could not help but lick his lips nervously. He thought that until now he had never really appreciated the adage about the wood-Elves: _More dangerous, less wise. _

He tried to shift, twisting his hands but found he could not move. A sharp stone dug into his hip but he could not move from it, must simply endure.

'Now. You were telling me how you rode off to meet with your folk, and the Nazgûl. You can either tell me where your masters are or I can leave you here for them to find you.' Legolas ran his finger along the straight edge of his white knife. 'Of course I cannot imagine they will be best pleased at your failure.' He lifted his strange green eyes to Aragorn, gave a thin smile that was utterly terrifying. Aragorn had been brought up amongst the wise and deep Elves of Imladris, not the wild folk of Mirkwood. 'I have seen what they do to those who displease them.'

Aragorn closed his eyes, shook his head for a moment. He had no idea what to do. In all his long life, and the many situations he had found himself, he could not think of a single one that had been quite so dismal.

'I cannot tell you where my master is, for I have none.' He hoped he sounded sincere but thought the rasp in his voice made him sound more like an Orc than a Man. 'My allegiance though, is with Imladris and Glorfindel is my captain.' He hoped the mention of Glorfindel's name might trigger something in Legolas' mind, and for a moment there was indeed a minute hesitation. 'He has been my friend and mentor for all my life,' he continued in a low voice, the way he would approach a nervous horse. He glanced towards Roheryn hopefully, wondering if the horse might be of some help, but it seemed the gelding had transferred his loyalty entirely to Legolas; all he did was swing his head round as was his habit, and peer at Aragorn questioningly, then turn back to pull at hay, munching noisily.

'You have fooled my lord Glorfindel then,' Legolas said, but he blinked slowly as if trying to remember something.

'I do not believe anyone has ever fooled Glorfindel,' Aragorn responded, and Legolas snorted.

'Is he not from Gondolin? Did it fall on its own?'

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in surprise. Legolas sniffed. 'You think us unlettered, untutored and unwise. But we are not complete fools...' He paused then and let his gaze slip as if he thought on his words and was puzzled. 'My father...' He blinked and shook his head a little.

'Your father trusted me.' Aragorn said. 'He let me into his stronghold and took the creature Gollum from me at Gandalf's behest.'

'And it betrayed us!' Suddenly Legolas leapt forwards and crashed to his knees beside Aragorn. 'You brought Gollum to us! You must be deeper in their plots than I even realised!' His eyes flashed and his teeth were bared, not in rage but terrible pain. Aragorn recognized his own guilt and loss in another's eyes. Suddenly he understood the obsession with returning for Rhawion.

At that moment, the Evenstar slipped out of his shirt and glinted. Legolas stopped, stared at it.

'What is that?' He let his long fingers drift over it, then cradled it gently in his hand for a moment, staring as if entranced. 'This is Elvish, ancient, filled with power...'

'It is a token from Arwen. She whom I love. Who loves me.' Aragorn felt his voice crack and it was not from the bruising of his windpipe. 'I told you…'

'Undomiel. Elrond's daughter.' Legolas gave him a shrewd look. 'You have bewitched her too.'

'No...I love her…'

There was a long pause. Aragorn felt himself heat under Legolas' piercing gaze that raked him, his face, pinned him. He who had endured Elrond's disapproval countless times, Glorfindel's patient scrutiny, suddenly felt as his bones had dissolved, his soul left exposed...He realised then how very protected he was from the _otherness_ that was the Elves.

Legolas leaned forward, stared into Aragorn's eyes and he thought he heard the whisper of grass, an elusive scent of summer. And then something in him shifted...he heard the sound of rain on the earth, the snap of a banner in the wind, a trumpet's clarion call that stirred his blood and made him proud. An unutterable lightness that danced through his whole being, made him want to laugh but instead there were tears streaming down his cheeks. He did not know why, but he had never felt so completely _known_...

When he opened his eyes, he found himself fixed in Legolas' own gaze, saw deep green, flecked with gold like new leaves in a beech wood, or the still deep pools beneath the mosses and ferns of the forest. There was the distant sigh of the Sea...

And then it was gone. Aragorn felt bereft. He would have reached out to hold on longer if he could, but Legolas drew back, sat on his heels, and Aragorn could breathe.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Legolas raised himself to his feet smoothly, with such grace that Aragorn wondered if he was poisoned at all, but suddenly Legolas wobbled, put his hand out to catch himself, balanced against the wall. He looked down, closed his eyes for a moment, then took a breath and immediately winced.

'How long does this poison remain in one's veins?' he asked not looking at Aragorn. 'I thought it had gone, and suddenly it assails me once again.' The Elf's eyes were bright with fever, and his long hair stuck against his brow. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted in short, quick breaths. Aragorn gulped air into his lungs, hoping beyond all hope that Legolas had recovered himself, and knew Aragorn again.

'It is fighting you,' he said as gently as he possibly could, keeping his voice low and hoping Legolas would not hear it tremble. 'An hour ago, it eased.' He was unsure if it were an hour or a day now, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. 'And now it is gathering itself...It is the poison that makes you think real what is not.' Aragorn shuffled himself uncomfortably so that he could keep Legolas in his sights as the Elf moved slowly towards Roheryn. The horse whickered softly, and watched Legolas' approach with interest. Legolas placed his hand upon the strong neck, and his head bowed. He swayed slightly on his feet.

'Does she love you?' Legolas asked again, looking down at the ground.

'She says she does.'

'If I killed you now I would spare my lord Elrond much heartache.'

Aragorn swallowed. 'You would.'

'But it would kill Arwen Undomiel by the look of it.'

'Yes.'

'Then swear an oath to me and I will let you go.' Legolas sank down on his knees beside Aragorn and stared at him earnestly.

'What is the oath?'

'I will not tell you until you have sworn to keep it.' He sat back on his heels, hands spread out on his thighs and regarded Aragorn with a mixture of anxiety and hope. It was strange, thought Aragorn, how very young and vulnerable he looked at that moment. But Legolas still clasped the thin white knife loosely in his hands.

'Then I cannot swear it.'

'You would lose your life because you do not trust me?' Legolas mouth twisted in inexplicable pain and disappointment. 'I do not ask you to endanger your life or anyone's but mine.'

Aragorn hesitated. He wanted to help, it was his nature. But he did not know Legolas, not really. And Legolas was asking him to help put Legolas himself in danger… but then it looked like Legolas was going to do that anyway and if Aragorn did not agree, he would be left here with no chance of helping Legolas avoid danger and no chance of saving his own life either. He sighed. 'Do you promise?'

'Yes. Now swear.'

Aragorn took a breath. 'I swear to help you.'

The thin leather reins that bound Aragorn as Legolas had been bound himself seemed to sip away. Aragorn moved his arms slowly, feeling the blood stab back into his veins. He winced and scowled, rubbed his arms and moved his legs gingerly. Slowly he pushed himself up so he sat opposite Legolas. Legolas sat as he had when Aragorn awoke, knees drawn up, long flaxen hair pulled over one shoulder. HIs face was drawn, his eyes narrowed, not with anger but with pain.

'Legolas, listen to me. You need to rest and to eat. I will prepare some athelas. It will help to soothe you.' He looked about for the torn leaves.

'You will help me,' Legolas said, ignoring him entirely, 'to find Rhawion and release his soul from the Nazgûl's grasp.'

0o0o0


End file.
